


DARE

by Tchosan



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Consensual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Individual chapters have tag warnings in notes beforehand, Verbal discussion of sexual assault and abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-01-30 08:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 157,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21425287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tchosan/pseuds/Tchosan
Summary: Angel doesn't have her life together. At all. Even less once she ends up working for a man with absolutely no shame, no sense of decency, and no friends. But her choices are slim as she jumps from one city to another, trying to reinvent herself while picking up the pieces of her old life. She's going to have to put up with her new terrifying boss for now. Who the fuck is Murdoc Niccals, anyway?
Relationships: Murdoc Niccals/Original Character(s)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FF.net under the pen name "illusioneyes". This is a completely rewritten version of the story, with the same OC. I've been working on a rewrite for a long time, and I've finally have it nearly completed! I'm very excited to share it with everyone. It does have a new plot, so readers of the old version will have new content.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who supported me throughout the years writing this story, from DA, to FF, to Tumblr, and now AO3.
> 
> I tag warnings ahead of each chapter.

* * *

“Angela?”

“Huh?”

Frannie’s face fell, the sound of the party snapping back into Angel’s ears.

“You weren’t listening at all.”

“No, no I was. Keep going.”

Fran sighed, taking another sip of her beer.

“Anyway, I had to get some space, she wanted me around all the time. I told her we need to take a break. I’m not ready for that kind of commitment. I’m only twenty-five, for godssakes. I mean, you’re the same age as me, right? How the fuck am I supposed to know if she’s the one, you know?”

Angel’s eyes were far away. She leaned forward, shaking her shoulder.

“Hello? What’s wrong with you? Are you thinking about him again?”

“No,” she snapped.

Fran sighed, rubbing her face.

“Christ, honey, you’ve got to move on.”

“I am. I have,” she mumbled, looking out the window at the bright full moon. Everyone thought she was more heartbroken than she was. She wished there was a sign she could wear around her neck that said, “not everything is about my break-up, please don’t ask”.

Truthfully, she was more preoccupied with the people around her. She felt lost in the crowd. Fran had told her they were mostly musicians, like her, some journalists and artists, but they all seemed to know each other. Angel could only count a few she recognized. And Fran was the only one who talked with her for longer than five minutes. She’d said it would be a good opportunity for her to rub elbows and get in with a new crowd. But that was very difficult when it seemed like no one wanted to talk to her instead of the friends they had already. They meant well, she thought, but she just wasn’t clicking.

Frannie nudged her.

“I’m sure you’ll find someone tonight. Take your mind off it.” She looked around, pointing to the door. “See? There’s a guy just your type.”

Angel glanced over. A man with black hair had sauntered in, making as much noise as he could as he stumbled in the door with a posse of equally loud and drunk friends in tow. Her lip curled up.

“Another douchebag attention-hog, thanks. You’ve definitely got me pegged, there.”

Frannie crumpled up her nose.

“That’s not what I meant. He’s got black hair like you like.”

“That’s not a qualifying factor,” she muttered, lifting the bottle to her lips.

“Don’t be so picky,” Frannie scolded. “There’s plenty to like, I’m sure.”

The man climbed up on the table, nearly toppling over on his way up. The table lurched dangerously under his weight. He threw his arms out, calling the attention of the room.

“Helloooooo everyone! I just wanted to make a little announcement, if you’ll all give me just a moment of your time!"

Everyone in the room turned their heads to look, a hasty quiet falling over them. He swayed, pausing a moment.

“Can-can someone tell me where the rum’s at?”

Angel looked back at Fran, her face blank. Fran crumpled her empty can, looking away.

“Erm, maybe don’t go for him, exactly.”

Angel got to her feet, setting the bottle down on the table.

“I’m going to get another. You?”

“Yeah, grab me one.”

She swam her way through the crowd of people, out to the balcony where a mob was out smoking beside the cooler. Angel dug her hands into the ice, pulling out a can and a bottle, water rolling down her hands. The night was cool, one of the last ones before it got warm, or at least as warm as England got. Angel missed the scorching hot North Carolina beaches, and the glaring, harsh sun. The grey and the rain didn’t suit her.

She was thinking about going home and trying to pick up the pieces of her old life, what little there was. There wasn’t anything keeping her here anymore now that her great aunt had passed. But that felt like admitting defeat, like choosing to abandon herself. She leaned against the railing, looking down over the street moving with the shadows of strangers. She didn’t know where to go from here. She could only take so much surfing from one couch to another, city to city. No job, no direction. How long could she float directionless until she started to sink? All she felt like she could do was drink and listen to other people live their lives while she floundered on her own, acting like she had it together.

She, in fact, had nothing together.

Another group was arriving, she guessed. A new wave of "hi" and "hey" trickled from inside and a few lingerers headed back in to greet them. Angel rubbed the edge of the can against her lips, wondering how long she could stay out here before Fran dragged her in to talk to another smattering of people that barely had anything in common with her.

She looked over, watching the new arrivals file in.

Her gut wrenched.

Angel left the drinks on the balcony and shoved her way through the crowd, keeping her head down as she rushed back inside.

Panic flooded her, and with it came droplets wetting the corners of her eyes. She needed to get away. Angel was a cry-baby, as much as she hated herself for it. She cried when she got angry, she cried when she got scared, and it never helped make her situation any better for her or anyone else around her.

She pushed through the throngs of people chatting it up in the hall, until she was alone. She opened up the door to the coat closet and slipped inside, hiding behind the jackets and coats of strangers. She sat down on the floor, pressing her hands to her face, a loud sob bursting from her. She dug her nails into her arms. Why, of all places, did he have to be here? He hadn’t seen her, at least she didn’t think so. But god, who had invited him? She’d been so careful.

He’d been standing right next to the front door, he must’ve just arrived. How was she going to get by without him noticing? Angel cupped her hands to her face. It was back to square one all over again. She’d just stopped looking over her shoulder every time she went out, just started feeling like maybe she didn’t have to think about him every minute. And there he was.

The door ripped opened suddenly to let a stumbling man into the closet with her. Angel snapped up, snot running down her face. She wiped her face hard, skin turning red, trying to clear away the tears streaming down her cheeks in waves. She desperately tried to hide her face from whoever it was but she couldn’t help but look anyway.

Of course, it was the asshole who had been making a scene of himself. And she was crying out every drop of water in her body in the closet. He swayed in the doorway, his body cast in shadow. Angel hid her face in her knees. She wanted to melt through the floor and disappear.

“Whatever nasty thing you’re going to say, just get it over with,” she muttered, tucking her face into her shoulder.

She felt him reach for his coat hanging over her, the sleeve dragging across the top of her head. She didn’t look up. She just wanted everyone to leave her alone. The crushing pain of even being looked at was too much to take.

Angel felt a finger tap her shoulder, and there was the asshole standing over her, holding out a crumpled take-out napkin he’d fished from his pocket in his hand. She wiped her face again, reaching out. Her hoarse voice whispered out a “thank you” that he could barely hear. She looked up at him out of the corner of her eye.

His eyes were frightening—one pitch black and the other an unnatural pink. Angel was staring. He made a strange, garbled grunt, shifting his weight.

“Wanna be alone?” he slurred.

She looked back down to the floor, feeling another convulsion of sobs bubbling up. She nodded. He grunted and backed out of the closet, pulling the door closed slowly behind him.

Angel rubbed her nose with the napkin, her forehead resting on her knees. She could hear people shuffling outside the door, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She didn’t want to look these people in the face, so they could see her red, puffy eyes and her swollen cheeks and know that, even in her late twenties, she was still hiding and crying. She couldn’t bring herself to leave or stay. She could only remain in a limbo where she was both a carefree friend and a person who was quickly slipping down the tube, but never both at the same time.

The doorknob turned. She could hear people outside talking. A crack of light spilled onto her, and there he was again—the asshole with the mismatched eyes. He pressed his finger to his lips and reached up over her to grab someone else’s coat. He looked at her for a moment, then turned, a loud laugh bursting out of him as he handed off the jacket to someone and quickly shut the door behind him, flicking the lock as he went, leaving her safely away from everyone else. Angel let her breath go, and found suddenly that the tears had left her, and now she simply felt empty.

She sat there a long time, listening to people jiggling the handle from outside every so often.


	2. Chapter 2

"I found you a gig."

Angel woke up to a text from Fran. She hadn't spoken to her in over a week. She shot up, her fingers fumbling over the letters.

"What is it?!"

Her chest thudded, her eyes still barely focused.

"I talked to a girl last night. She said a friend of a friend was looking for an assistant. A musician up in Manchester. I figured you might want in? She texted me his address and number. You want it?"

Angel stared at the wall, her fingers hovering. Tomorrow was her last night in the Airbnb, she had nowhere else to go after this. A job meant being able to stay. But being an assistant… that's something she didn't know if she could do.

"When is it for?"

"She said ASAP, apparently he's pretty desperate."

She didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. Angel swallowed against her dry throat.

"Send it to me, please."

Angel pulled her hood around her, looking from her phone to the number on the building. This was it. A tall brownstone nestled in between ones that looked just like it all up and down the block. It looked nice. Maybe this could actually work out.

She slid in past the iron gate and splashed water all the way up the steps, diving into the doorway out of the rain. Water dripped down her legs, her clothes soaked through. The English rain was something she thought she'd never get used to. She wiped herself down quickly, brushing her hair back and pulling her jacket straighter. Most of her clothes were casual, so she threw on anything that looked vaguely nice and hoped that it matched. When she caught a look at herself in the window, she realized that was not the case. A casual jacket over a collared shirt with a leather skirt and too-high heels. She looked more like a teacher in a softcore porno. Too late now, she thought. Angel pulled her ponytail over her shoulder. She was regretting the blue dye-job now. Not as cool when it made her look like a kid in mom’s clothes.

She adjusted and situated until there was nothing else she could do to stall and she rang the doorbell before she could change her mind.

Nerves ate at her. It was quiet. A chill ran through her, and she debated ringing again. She leaned over, trying to look in the window to see if a light was on. One more ring, less decisive than before.

Her mouth was dry and her face started getting hot. Maybe it was the wrong address, or maybe he wasn't home. She'd tried calling earlier, but no one picked up and no one called her back. She rubbed her fingers together and rang one last time.

The door ripped open, and suddenly there was a man in front of her.

Angel was never a particularly lucky person. And she never relied on the chance that something lucky might happen to her. Very few favorable things _ did _happen to her. She didn’t find money on the street. She didn’t win on scratch-off lottery tickets. She’d never had a double yolk egg in her life. Her toast fell butter-side-down. Lost pets didn’t come back. Miracles just didn’t happen to her. And Angel’s lack of faith in her luck was solidified as she realized she knew who was standing in the doorway.

It was him. The asshole.

Angel's mouth fish-gaped, words leaving her immediately. There was no way, but there he was. The man that watched her cry in a closet. She knew for sure it was him. He was older than she'd remembered, maybe in his forties. And short. He was a good two inches shorter than her. But there was no one on God’s green earth that had those creepy mismatched eyes. They ran over her, cold and pointed. She could feel herself being evaluated, and she tried to stand up a little straighter.

"Yeah?" he said suddenly.

She tensed. He didn't seem like he remembered her.

"I'm looking for, uh... Murdoc?"

His nose crumpled up.

"Who's asking?"

"I'm here about the... assistant job?"

“The assistant job?” he said, his tone incredulous.

Her face turned red. Maybe she'd been had. Fran wasn’t always reliable. She felt herself starting to shake.

“Yes, a friend told me you were looking for someone.” Angel pulled her phone out of her pocket, rechecking the address. It couldn't have been right.

"I tried to call, but I couldn't get through."

She showed him the phone number, his eyes flicking over the screen.

"I just got rid of that number. Gotta change it every few months, you know?"

He turned, walking back inside. She hovered, unsure if he was inviting her in or not.

The best way Angel could have described the inside of the house would have been “goth playboy mansion”. She looked down at the—clearly fake—cheetah rug under her feet, traveling up to the black walls of the foyer. The walls were dotted with frightening looking men in cult garb and a large, gold inverted cross hung at the top of the stairs. Her eyes darted over to a candelabra with red candles, hanging just off balance and half-melted. It smelled overwhelmingly like musk cologne and smoke.

She dripped onto the carpet, searching for words. Murdoc was walking into the room to the left and she hurried to catch up.

"It's… a nice place," she tried.

"Really? I just moved in. Trying to put my little mark on the place, you know, but still seems so sterile."

The living room wasn’t any better. Black curtains only let in a sliver of sun into the room, the only other light being a lamp shaped like a nude woman holding the head of what looked like a goat that cast the room in a dim, yellow hue. There was a record player sitting on a side table beside an overflowing ashtray, the vinyl spinning with its needle still in the cradle, the speakers crackling. A long leather couch sprawled out in the middle of the whole thing, like a coffin. Murdoc threw himself onto it, kicking his heels up onto the coffee table. A switchblade was stabbed into the middle of it, bookended by Murdoc’s feet. Angel instantly regretted coming inside, but it was too late now. She reminded herself to kill Fran later. If later ever came.

She sat on a matching leather chair, under a huge buffalo skull. She almost slipped off the seat, still drenched from the rain.

Murdoc struck a match against his fingers and lit a cigarette, looking at her with an unreadable expression. Angel shifted. He took a long drag and sat up suddenly, leaning towards her.

“Cig?” he offered, shaking the carton at her.

“No,” she said on instinct, adding quickly, “Thank you. I don’t smoke very often.”

He was setting the carton down on the side table, clearly not listening to anything after “no”.

“I’ve been looking for an assistant for months. Didn't think anyone was going to actually show up.”

“Well, uh, here I am.”

She smiled nervously. His expression didn’t change.

“You sure you know what that entails, love?”

To be honest, she didn't. But she nodded anyway. She needed a job.

“Yes, I'm aware.”

He surveyed her, looking down at her high heels, all soaked through and caked with fresh mud. Red blisters poked out from the sides. She shifted her feet under the table, pressing her knees together.

“I wanted to look, uh, professional.”

She didn't know what she was going to do about her only pair of good shoes, but she'd have to live with it.

He was looking her in the eye now, two fingers pressed against his lips in thought. Angel tried and failed not to look nervous. He blinked slowly, eyebrows arching under his bangs.

“Well, you want to show me a CV or a letter or something?”

Angel blanked. She didn't have anything.

“I… well you see...”

She squirmed under his stare, trying to come up with an excuse and finding none. She bit her lip.

“Uh, look, I'll be honest with you. I really, really need a job. I'm… pretty desperate. I have a work visa, but I need a job to stay here. I know that's not… ideal, but please. I'll do whatever job you give me.”

His expression didn't change, and for a long while, he just stared at her, until he took a long breath in through his crooked nose.

“Any job?”

Angel faltered.

“...As long as it's… respectable work,” she clarified, feeling needles prickle up the back of her neck.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, the end glowing orange. Angel’s leg bounced uncontrollably. A billow of smoke puffed from his nostrils. The thin line of his mouth twitched. He got up suddenly, clapping his hands together.

"Alright, we'll give it a go!"

Her heart stopped.

"Really?"

Murdoc glanced down at her.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"No!" she said quickly. "Thank you! When should I start?"

He thought a minute, flicking his cigarette.

“Come back tomorrow, I’ve got something in mind.” He moved towards the kitchen, talking over his shoulder. “Ah, but first, I want you to do something.”

Angel crept after him, her hands balled into tight, white-knuckled fists.

“And that is?”

He laughed under his breath, smoke leaking from between his teeth.

“Ah, unclench, love. If I was anglin’ to shack up I’d be laying it on a lot thicker than this, let me tell you.”

Her muscles tensed, her face flushing. He folded his hands, leaning on the island counter.

"Just answer some questions. Routine, really."

He slid a pen and paper over, and Angel’s muscles relaxed Murdoc clicked the pen a dozen times, leaning over the page.

"Name?" he said in an overly-sweet voice.

"Angel."

A barking cough of a laugh burst out of him.

"That's your name?!"

Her face flushed red, and she couldn't tell if she was angry or embarrassed.

"Angela is my full name. It's… it's Spanish."

"Eh-heh, not poking fun at your heritage, love. It's just, ah, if you haven't noticed you're not exactly in the house of God." He shrugged, grinning. "It's ironic."

She didn't know what to say to that, and blurted out, "I'm not religious."

"Ah, it's equal-opportunity employment, here. You can be whatever you'd like. As long as you're all-in for working for a Satan worshipper."

"I uh, I don't care about that."

"Fantastic! I'll mark you down as a 'maybe' for fetching my chickens… You're not a member of PETA, right?"

"Uh, no."

He continued right on, his pen moving and his eyes lowered.

"So, Andrea-"

"Angela."

"Right. Let me give you a hypothetical." He leaned back, rolling the pen around in his hands. "Let's say… Your friend did something, and the police show up. Would you roll over on them?"

What the fuck did this have to do with anything? Was he just playing around with her?

"Um… I guess it depends on what it is they did."

"Innnnteresting." He cleared his throat. "Who do you think the greatest band of all time is?"

Angel perked up, her mind racing for an answer.

"Of all time? Like, history-wise or talent-wise?"

"Whichever you prefer. There's no wrong answers. But there is a right one."

"Well, Queen, I think."

"Mmm. Not the answer we were looking for, but an acceptable one, I'd say…"

Angel squirmed.

"Have you ever been to prison?"

"Oh, uh, no I haven't."

"Mm, mm-hm," he grunted, scribbling something. He sounded disappointed. "Laaaaast question," he drawled, clicking his pen rapid-fire. She wanted to grab it out of his hand. "What... is your mobile number?"

"Oh, I can write it down for you."

He ripped off a corner of the paper and slid the pen over to her. She considered breaking it in half before she handed it back. He clicked it seventeen more times.

"Brilliant! Well, congratulations, Annette!"

"Angela."

He jabbed his hand out at her. God, his nails were so long. She reached out, grasping it tentatively. He shook so vigorously she thought her arm would pop out of its socket. Then he pulled back, rummaging around in a drawer. A key with a heavy skull keychain dangled around his index finger.

“Don’t lose it,” he said with a serious face. “Want to make sure you’re as responsible as you look.”

Angel couldn’t tell if that was a joke or not.

“I won’t lose it.”

He dropped it into her open palm.

Angel hovered in the doorway out of the rain. Murdoc had shooed her out all of a sudden, saying she should come back tomorrow and that he had some “important business to attend to.'' She opened her wallet, fishing out her ATM receipt. She mulled the number over and over in her mind. She could get away with a cheap Airbnb for one more night if she could find one, as long as she didn’t eat dinner or breakfast. But then… She hung her head. What was she going to do? She ran her hands through her hair. Maybe she could ask Murdoc for an advance?

She sat up, looking back at the door. The thought of immediately asking for money made her stomach twist. But what other choice did she have, other than busking for money in the train station?

She slid the key into the door and peeked inside.

“Uh, Mr…” she realized she had never asked his last name. “Murdoc?” she called out awkwardly.

“What?” he yelled from upstairs.

Angel shrunk, sweat pooling on her palms.

“I… was wondering if I could ask you for a favor,” she said, squeezing her eyes closed, ready to be told to get out.

“What?” he asked again.

“I’m in a tight situation, is there any way…” The words caught in her throat.

“Spit it out!” he yelled.

“I was wondering if I could get an advance on my pay!”

There was a long, unbearable silence. Angel gripped the doorknob, ready to run. She heard him coming down the stairs. She fumbled over her words.

“If the answer is no, I understand, I just wanted to ask because I’m in a pinch and I wanted to see if maybe there was a chance to—”

He was in front of her now. His expression was unreadable. Angel clenched her jaw hard to keep herself from talking.

“What for?” he asked in an even voice.

“I just…” She searched for a lie that would sound better than the truth. But she found it hard to think of a story while he was watching her with those mismatched eyes. “I’m out of money and I’ve got nowhere to stay after tonight,” she blurted out.

His expression didn’t change. Angel’s nails bit into her palms, leaving deep digs. He leaned back on one heel, folding his arms.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

That made her more nervous.

“O-okay?”

“I’ve got a little flat downtown. You do a little extra running around for me, I’ll let you stay there. No rent for the first month.”

Angel’s heart skipped.

“You’d really let me stay there?”

Murdoc flashed a grin.

“What can I say? I’m a benefactor among thieves.”

She nodded, her chest tightening.

“Yes, yes, I’ll do it. Thank you.”

“Great! You’ve got enough cash to keep your phone on, yeah?” He grabbed up a pen from the table, scribbling the address in an almost unreadable scrawl. “When I call, you pick up, got it?”

“Yes, I got it.”

Angel’s relief was palpable. She wouldn’t be sleeping in the subway tomorrow. He was digging around in the table drawer, then tossed her a little silver key. She fumbled, nearly dropping it on the floor.

“Enjoy. Don’t mess it up.”

She didn’t see how she could possibly mess it up.

The flat was as messy as Murdoc’s. Four floors up on a backstreet, it was a tiny one-room studio, but somehow was crammed wall-to-wall with shit. Angel dropped her bag on the floor, her mouth going dry.

There was a futon, absolutely covered in clothes that spilled over onto the floor. The coffee table was more of the same, plus a collection of skin mags. The kitchenette was loaded with empty beer bottles, wine bottles, cans, and plastic fourths. She counted five ashtrays that she could see, all loaded with butts. The bathroom door was open. She didn’t want to look in.

The entire place stank like old cigarettes and stale beer, like a pool hall. She looked down. A thong was wrapped around her heel. Angel took a deep breath in.

She looked over to the kitchen counter, where a stack of mail had fallen over into the overflowing garbage pail. They were all addressed to a “Mundoon Nuckles”. Angel stared, the reality of it all sinking in. This was his bachelor pad. She took a long breath. It was better than the subway. Somewhat. It smelled like the subway.

She opened up the windows, dust flying out in a cloud. The breeze helped clear out some of the stench. It was warm, moist and thick after the rain, and the wind blew in hard, the curtains moving like wings, the white yellowed from smoke. Angel gathered up all the clothes, dumping them in the corner, trying not to touch the worst ones. She picked through them carefully. There were some that weren’t too bad, and she wondered if he would notice if she borrowed them. There wasn’t much in her bag, she was recycling outfits every other day. Only what she could pack in an overnight bag had made it with her from Southend, Southend to Coventry, Coventry to Northampton, and now Manchester. She picked out the good ones and tossed them in the other corner for a wash later.

There was a roll of paper-thin garbage bags under the sink, and after the bottles were gone and ashtrays were cleaned out, the place didn’t seem quite so horrible. Until she found a used condom on the floor. She picked it up with a shirt and just threw the whole thing out.

Angel looked down at the futon, her stomach wriggling. There was no way she was sleeping on that. She’d buy sheets tomorrow and double wrap it. Angel laid out on her coat on the floor instead and stared up at the ceiling. It could be worse, she reasoned with herself. At least she had a little money left in her account. And she was sleeping indoors.

She didn’t bother unpacking, not that there was much to unpack. She didn’t move from that spot on the floor. The moving from place to place, day to day, was sinking in and exhaustion crippled her. She felt as if her body was going to dissolve into the floor–every joint was swollen and throbbing. Her feet were covered in angry, red blisters from walking, chasing after every entry-level job she could find for the past month. She rubbed the long, puckered scar on her palm, a slash straight down the middle. Her mind was finally calming. She could stop running. For now, at least. She could stop for a minute and gather herself.

Her phone buzzed.

"Annabelle! This is Murdoc Niccals, your new employer! Enjoy the flat! No boys allowed. See you tomorrow, bright and early, yeah?"

On second thought, this was going to be difficult.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of her phone ringing startled Angel awake. She didn't even realize she'd fallen asleep. She squinted in the dim light, fumbling for the phone—it was Murdoc.

“Y-yes?”

“Hey! It’s me, Murdoc.”

“Uh, yeah, what’s… what’s up?”

“I’ve got a job for you.”

Angel looked up at the window. Grey light leaked in through the curtains, filling the room with an eerie glow.

“What time is it?”

“Oh, like five or something.”

Her eyes shot open. Five in the morning? She tried to thin the anger that spurred up in her.

"I see. O-okay, what is it?"

"I need your help with a few things! Meet me at the house, I'll explain eeeeeverything there!"

She opened her mouth, but he'd already hung up.

  
  


The hazy purple of dawn crept over the sky as Angel stood waiting to get off the train. She pulled her bag further up on her shoulders. It drooped off again. There was barely anything inside. But she wanted to give the impression that she was someone who might have their shit enough together to put her stuff in a bag. She stepped off onto the platform, her eyelids still heavy. She hadn’t gotten up that early in years. She might have fallen asleep on her feet if it weren’t for the sharp pain than ran through her with every step. She had tried her best not to recycle her outfit from yesterday, but her still-wet heels were back on her feet, rubbing fresh, bleeding blisters into her ankles. There were precious little options in her suitcase, and she’d thrown on a sweater, the skirt from the day before, and the damn tight heels.

Angel took stock of herself in the store windows as she passed, fixing her hair behind her ears. She hadn’t had a regular job in so long, it made her uncomfortably on-edge, adjusting herself every few steps.

She stopped, pulling her heels out of her shoes, relief washing over her for a brief moment, before plodding on, trying to ignore the skin wearing off her. It wasn’t too far. She just hoped he didn’t expect her to walk too much.

  
  


It only took once knock before he ripped the door open. Angel suddenly didn’t feel bad about her outfit. Murdoc looked like a French porn director—black turtleneck, tight jeans, heeled boots, and a gold chain that had an anti-cross dangling at the end. He slid his sunglasses from his nose, staring at her a moment. Angel felt herself being examined. She squirmed.

"Excellent! I've been waiting with bated breath," he said suddenly, turning away. "I'm just tickled pink to have an assistant again! You've no idea how many I've been through!"

A nervous laugh left her. This was a huge mistake. She went inside.

The goth penthouse was even worse than yesterday. Much worse. The candlesticks were snapped in half. Cans and bottles dotted every surface. Pictures hung off-kilter all the way up the stairs. She stepped in a puddle drained from a bottle of Stoli’s on her way in. All the pillows in the living room were thrown around and the rug was rumpled up in the corner.

It looked like he’d had a party of a hundred people tearing apart the house all night.

“I had a party of a hundred people tearing apart the house all night!” he called from the kitchen. “What a banger! Truly something to remember, I assure you. I haven’t slept! Too wired from all the energy! I _ have _ sobered up a bit, and that’s a bit of a bummer.”

Angel stepped around broken glass and a wet spot of what she was hoping was beer. A bra hung from the gold lamp. She laid her jacket over the back of the couch, stunned into silence. Murdoc was pouring himself a drink, leaned up against the counter, the sunglasses pulled over his eyes.

“Care for a drink, Alicia?”

Angel gave up correcting him.

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Ooh, sorry, I forgot how early it was. I have some orange juice if you’d like a mmmmmimosa instead? Ladies looooove brunch drinks.”

“Mm, that’s nice, but I don’t drink before eleven. Er, heartburn.”

“Tough break,” he mumbled, tipping the glass of whiskey to his lips. It clacked against the counter on its way back down. “You like parties?”

Angel froze, her mind traveling back to the closet and her teary eyes.

“Sometimes.”

“Well, I think there’s very little else to live for than a good party. Booze, laughs, exceptionally beautiful people especially when combined with the previous two ingredients. The after-party, even better! The after-after party, er, not so much. Cleaning up the mess isn’t nearly as fun as making it.”

He gestured to the mess.

“I was hoping you’d give me a hand clearing all this out. I’ve got some important meetings to attend to in a bit. Can’t be out of sorts for that. You understand.”

She did not.

“Of course,” she said.

“Right! Well, rubbish bags are under the sink.”

He collapsed onto the couch, the leather squeaking under his weight.

“I need to collect myself,” he sighed. “But feel free to get started without me.”

Angel could feel her ears going red, her anger beginning to bubble up. She forced the words that flew to her mouth down and took a long breath through her nose.

“Sure.”

  
  


Murdoc watched her over the top of his magazine, smoke billowing from the corner of his mouth. She kept her eyes locked straight ahead as she gathered up the mess. Generally, his eyes would have been fixed on her ass, but he was having trouble focusing on that. His eyes were fixed on her feet, bloody and raw under her shoes. He cleared his throat, ashing his cig in a skull-shaped tray.

“Tell me something, Angelica...”

Angel tensed. At least that was the closest to her actual name he’d been yet.

“Yes?” she snapped.

“What brought you to this side of the pond? Business or… pleasure?”

She froze, the bag tight in her fist.

“Both,” she murmured.

It was quiet a moment, which was somehow worse. Angel's chest tightened, and she tried to focus on the mess around her.

“Well! Nothing wrong with a bit of both. Change is the spice of life, as they say.”

She didn’t know what to say to him, so she said nothing. Murdoc narrowed his eyes.

Then she heard a strange sound, like a duck quacking. She stopped, looking back over at Murdoc. He was still reading, motionless. Maybe she had heard something outside.

She turned back, and there it was again.

She whipped around. Murdoc glanced up from his magazine.

"Yessss?" he drawled.

"Erm, nothing."

She turned back slowly, hesitating a good long minute before starting up again.

Again, three times.

"Oh my god??" she spat out.

Murdoc jumped, the magazine falling out of his hand.

"What in Satan's name is wrong with you?" he snapped.

Her face flushed red with anger and embarrassment. _ 'What the fuck are you doing?!' _ she wanted to shout, but Angel struggled to say something else, anything else.

"Are you... like, making a sound?" she asked, trying to control her temper.

He leaned forward, stroking his chin.

"A sound? A sound like what?"

"Like… a duck."

"Like a duck?"

"Yes."

"Like 'quack quack'?"

"No, like an actual duck."

"Why would I quack like an actual duck?"

Angel felt a wave of frustration grip her.

"I don't know."

He made a face at her and leaned down to pick up his magazine, tsk-tsking quietly.

"Maybe you need a break, Anna?"

Angel's hands tensed. He was just trying to get a rise out of her.

"No, I'm okay."

She held his stare for a moment, then turned back around, grabbing up another plastic cup.

He slapped the magazine shut, groaning as he stood.

"Well, I can see you've got it covered, here. Yell when you're done. I'm going upstairs to catch up on a little sleep. You know, it's important to get your eight hours in."

Angel's fist clenched into sweaty death grips. The echo of his heels clacked up the stairs.

"No problem," she hissed, using every ounce of restraint in her body.

The clickity-clack of his boots disappeared up the stairs, and Angel dropped to the floor, kicking off her heels. She rubbed them, wincing. Was this even worth it? Maybe she should just quit before things got worse. She could figure something else out.

But that was a lie. It was grin and bear it, beg someone to let her couch surf for another month, or turn tail and run back to the US and pick up where she left off—serving in a diner and wishing for something to happen to her. At least something was happening to her now.

The unmistakable, grungy sound of a bass guitar echoed through the house, leaking through the floor. Angel sat up, her thoughts fading away. The amp sounded wrong, flappy and warbling. But not unpleasant. The rhythm was a heartbeat in the walls, vibrating. Angel stared at the floor, listening.

So he played the bass. He was good, she hated to admit. She was secretly hoping he was a talentless hack. But the tuneless notes eased into a melody that brought her to stillness, forgetting the pain that nagged at her ankles. There on the floor, she was drifting someplace else—back to a sea of mint green carpet, with headphones on, struggling out a new tune on her Telecaster. A warm wave of calm flooded her. She hadn’t listened to someone play in so long, it felt familiar despite who it was. She was hypnotized.

Then the air was dry. She snapped back. The sludgy bass was gone, the walls suddenly still. And it was frighteningly quiet.

Angel sat for a moment, collecting herself. She poked at the wounds on her feet. No more heels, she swore. It was going to be her old boots from now on, fuck making an impression. Murdoc clearly wasn’t worth the effort. The sound lingered in her ears.

She cleared up what she could, stacking the bags up by the door. She examined the bra that dangled off the gold lamp’s tiny hand, holding it up to herself. It was blush-colored and lacey and a shame to throw away. Her mouth crumpled—the band was too small. She was a big girl all-around, tall and broad and square-jawed. Even Murdoc was smaller than her. She shook the thought away, and stuck the bra in the side table drawer in case the owner ever came back for another house-destroying party.

She edged to the bottom of the stairs, looking up. He hadn’t told her to go upstairs, but the path of destruction led all the way up. Angel went step-by-step, walking as quietly as she could, gathering up a trail of cans and cups. The door at the end of the hall was shut tight, but the rest were cracked open. Reason told her to leave well enough alone, but she peeked into the room on the left, straining her sight in the darkness.

The room was stuffed with instruments: guitars hanging on stands against the wall, a keyboard, a violin, a synth, a melodica, and a cherry-red bass laid across the cow print couch. She hovered, her eyes traveling over the recording equipment. It was better than anything she’d ever had. Temptation ate at her, but she pulled the door closed, fighting the urge to go inside.

The bathroom was a fucking wreck, everything knocked all over the floor, the sink slick with toothpaste and soap and what looked like blood. She turned on the faucet, looking away. The trash looked like it had been set on fire, black marks running up the inside. The wall and the shower curtain didn’t escape unscathed either. She shook the can, ash sifting around at the bottom with some shriveled up cigarette butts. What the fuck kind of stupid friends did he have?

She emptied the rubbish, sorted out the mess on the floor, scrubbed out the sink, and re-rolled the toilet paper back onto the roll. She drew the line at the toilet and kicked the lid closed.

There was only one room left upstairs. She stared at the door, carefully treading back down the steps.

Minutes ticked by as she waited, unsure if she should leave. She paced, cleaning anything else she could think of. She was scrubbing the stovetop when she finally heard the clacking of his heels trotting down the stairs. She hurried back into her heels.

He peeled around the corner, looking at his phone as he dusted himself off.

“Well! I’d say that’s that for you.”

Angel looked around, at a loss for words. It was only eleven. He raised his eyebrows, leaning forward.

“Yesssss?”

“Do you… want me to stay for your meeting?”

He coughed out a laugh.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, don’t need help with everything. Ah, make sure you take the rubbish with you on the way out. And uh, Did you bring in the post? Hm, well, we’ll work on it. Anyway, out, out, out!”

He rushed her to the door, leaning against the frame.

"Make sure that doesn't fall out of your pocket, dearie!"

"What?"

She dipped her hand into her jacket pocket and fished out a folded stack of bills. She turned back to him, suspicious.

"What's this?"

"Your pay."

"In cash?"

"Fresh out of checks, love. It's not 1988." He slid his glasses up on the crooked bridge of his nose. "Unless you'd rather take nature's credit card?"

She could tell he was waggling his eyebrows under his hair even if she couldn't see it.

"Uh, no, cash is fine."

"Oh well, your loss. Well! I'm expecting company any minute now, so… get lost!" He turned on his heel, waving over his shoulder. "Ta, love!"

The door slammed, and she was alone on the steps.

They'd never even talked about a rate. She was just so desperate, she'd have taken anything. A pit grew in her stomach. He was such a jackass, she wouldn't have put it past him to pay her in cash to avoid the minimum wage. It was only a couple days work, but if it was under £8 an hour, she was fucked.

She counted it out—£666. She counted it again to be sure. Angel looked back at the front door. What the fuck was wrong with him?

But Angel didn't argue. She hopped on a bus downtown. Half the money she wired to her debit account for her phone bill and savings, and she pocketed the rest. It had been so long since she'd been able to buy something in a shop without counting everything out to the cent. Whether Murdoc had made a mistake or not, the cash was hers and she was going to use it.

  
  


Angel leaned out the window, taking a sip from her beer, her hair drying out in the breeze with a towel around her shoulders. She’d splurged on a new box of dye, her washed-out color now bright blue again in the evening light.

The flat was coming together, despite itself. There was no wi-fi, no TV, so she was alone with her thoughts. But the breeze was warm and her beer was cold, and that was good enough.

She finally had the futon wrapped up in a new sheet so she didn’t have to sleep on the floor. She’d bought herself some toothpaste and a brush, a cheap little french press to make coffee, a wooden spoon and a small pan, and a pack of plastic utensils and plates she could wash.

There was finally something to eat in the kitchen, too. She didn’t realize how much she missed food she didn’t have to microwave or eat out of a package. Some apples, peanut butter, white bread and a pack of eggs, a tin of coffee, and a tiny carton of milk. And a beer. She’d stolen a bar of soap and a washcloth from Murdoc’s bathroom and stuffed them into her purse. She smelled like him now, but she didn’t care as long as she was clean.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make her feel some semblance of a normal life.

There was still cash leftover, but she wanted to be careful with it incase she needed to make a hasty exit if things got too weird. At least enough for a train ticket.

Her phone chimed, and her blood froze. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself down. She took a long drink from the bottle and looked over at the phone across the room. Slowly, she moved towards it, sliding it unlocked.

“Anita!” the text started. “If a chick shows up do NOT tell her my address, got it?? You’re a smart girl, you’ll think of something. Big day tomorrow, get tucked in early. Love, your boss.”

Angel grit her teeth, setting it down. She was not going to be answering that.

She pulled her shirt off, tossing it into her empty bag to be washed. She was almost out of clothes and would have to find a place to get them done soon. She looked over at the pile of “good” clothes she’d sorted out from the piles on the floor, and picked through them. Some were Murdoc’s, some weren’t. She pulled out a relatively clean black shirt, holding it up to herself and slipped it on. It was soft, and it smelled less than the other clothes. She pressed the fabric to her nose. It smelled like cigar smoke and some kind of cologne. Not a horrible smell.

She laid down on the futon, staring up at the ceiling. She was frightened of Murdoc. He made her uneasy, evaluated and watched. She didn’t know how to act around him, didn’t know whether to be angry at his attitude or afraid of his instability. His eyes made her more nervous than anything, the way he looked at her. His red eye seemed to burrow into her brain and it was like he could read her thoughts. As if there was no fooling him. But he was handsome in an odd way, not entirely unpleasant looking. That made it even harder to deal with him. It made her feel small.

And he had money, real money. That made her uncomfortable, too, like she was on uneven ground. She still couldn’t piece together what he did for a living. Something to do with music, but what, she wasn’t sure. Part of her didn’t want to know, she didn’t want to get too involved. All she had to do was work this job and keep her head down until she could figure out what she was going to do. 

Angel gripped the edge of the shirt, running her fingers over the raised scar on her hand. The thought of Murdoc slipped away and the old ones came creeping back. In the dark room it was just her... and her ex.

She felt the compulsive urge to check her Instagram, to see where he was, if he was still in London or if he’d somehow been able to figure out where she’d gone. But she resisted. She was still on a self-imposed social media lockdown. The thought lingered in the back of her mind that if she looked him up, he would somehow appear, like he would sense her on the other side. She’d deleted every photo she’d posted with him, deleted every picture on her phone. There was no reason to still be so dodgy as long as she didn’t give away where she was. But she couldn’t overcome her fear.

She took a long breath in through her nose. Hiding in her own life, avoiding the internet, avoiding everyone, making up reasons why things didn’t work out between them… It was exhausting. She didn’t even have anything to do to distract herself. She’d left her guitar at his place, and didn’t dare pick it up before she left. All the recordings she’d made, all the masters, they were all gone now. Starting over from scratch, again, weighed on her. She was alone. Again.

The pink glow of sunset fizzled out, and the room grew hazy with the grey-blue of night, the streetlights leaking in over her. Her beer grew warm. She felt tears running down her cheeks, and cursed herself for it. She was such a crybaby. She thought that by now she would have toughened up, but here she was, crying on her back for the thousandth time. She closed her eyes and waited until she slipped asleep, her phone in her hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Angel’s eyes popped open and she sat up with a start, panting, flushed and sweating. It took a long moment of panic for her to remember where she was, taking in the sight of daylight pouring in through the open balcony door. She flopped back down, forcing her breath to even out.

She dreamt of him again. She swore she’d woken up in his apartment, next to him. She rubbed the pucked scar on her palm. He wasn’t here, wasn’t anywhere close, she reassured herself. She was alone.

Well, nearly.

She pawed at her phone, pulling it by the cord to look down at her screen–there was a message.

‘Angelina–’

Almost right.

‘–be a dear and pick up a few things for me. I’ve someone coming around about six, so DO NOT show up before then, alright? Ta!’

Sent at 4am.

She sighed, burying her face in the pillow. She couldn’t decide if he’d woken up that early or if he’d never slept at all. Why the fuck did she have to get set up with some psychopath? Was it that impossible to just meet someone normal? She forced herself to her feet, stretching. She had to remind herself that it was better than sleeping in the train station or busking for cash. Again.

Angel stared at her reflection in the Metro window, smoothing her shirt down. She’d bought a long jacket with some of the money she’d gotten, and could finally wear a new outfit without recycling her old one. She wiggled her feet inside her new soft flat shoes, the blisters still raw and red, but starting to close up. She felt like maybe she was finally starting to get the hang of herself again, despite everything. She’d barely stepped off the train before that feeling was wrenched out of her.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She sighed, wondering what else Murdoc wanted now. But it was Fran.

‘Hey Angie, I got a text from Marnie, she said Billy’s coming out with a new album soon and that he’s asking around about you again, too. I thought you might want to know.’

Her fingers hovered over the screen. She typed out a sentence, deleted it, typed another, deleted it. She shook. She didn’t know how to feel. She was overwhelmed, like an exposed nerve. She walked over to a bench, sitting down, her mind racing.

‘Let me know if you hear anything else. Thanks.’

It shouldn’t have bothered her. She shouldn’t have cared. Part of her was angry that Fran even told her. But she knew she was just trying to look out for her. But the fact that he was on about her again worried her. She pushed the thought back, trying to be reasonable. He had no idea where she was, and there was no way Fran was telling. No one else knew. No one but Murdoc, and he didn’t know anything about her. Nor did he seem to care. And she was happy to keep it that way. She was still safe. She stroked the scar on her palm. Still safe.

It took hours to gather up everything Murdoc asked for, and by the time she was done, she was still early. She sat on the steps, shopping bags on either side of her. She hunched over her phone, jumping from one app to another until there was nothing to do but stare. She fought off the urge to check Billy’s page, her fingers itching. She forced herself to think about anything else.

There was a vintage red Pontiac parked across the street. It had been so long since she’d been behind the wheel of a car, not since she’d lived at home in the States, driving her Dad’s old gold Cutlass down the highway, watching the bay pass as she drifted down the road. She leaned her chin on her knees. She missed the sound of waves, and when things felt lighter and the world felt bigger.

The clap of the door being wrenched open tore her out of her daydream. Angel stumbled back, a short man nearly tripping over her and taking off down the steps. Murdoc almost ran headlong into her as he came running out of the flat.

“Oh come on! We can work something out, yeah? It's just temporary until I can get the rest of 'em back!”

He looked flushed, his face red with anger, watching the man rush down the street. His hands clenched into fists.

“Fine! Clear off! See what the fuck I care! Good luck with that scumbag, Chopper! You’ll regret this!”

He reeled on her, his eyes intense and focused.

“What the bleeding hell do you want?!”

She tensed, holding up the bags, at a loss for words. He huffed, turning away.

“Just… put it anywhere and get lost.”

He stormed back into the house, leaving her gawking on the doorstep. She watched the man turn the corner and disappear. She wanted to ask, but kept her mouth shut and followed Murdoc inside, making a beeline for the kitchen and setting the bags down on the counter.

He was pacing around the living room, making a round about the couch, to the far side of the room, around the coffee table, and back.

“Do you want anything else?” she said, her low voice deafening in the silence.

Murdoc stopped, cracking his knuckles.

“Do you know a good lawyer?”

Her mouth opened and she shook her head. He grunted.

“Then no.”

She waited a moment, then gathered up her keys and started for the door. He watched her go, eyes darting from the bags to her.

“I changed my mind. I want you to get me something else.”

She turned, anxiety pulsing through her.

“Uh, alright.”

He searched the room, his gaze far away.

“Pick me up some rum. Er, no… whiskey.”

“What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The silence that settled in was thick and heavy. Angel wet her lips, gripping her keys in her pocket. She was caught somewhere between frustration, anger, and fear, her entire body on edge. It took an overwhelming effort to stay even-headed.

“Alright. I’ll be back.”

He watched her walk to the door, his eyes wild.

“No, I changed my mind again. Rum.”

She looked back at him and shut the door.

It took every ounce of control for her to walk to the liquor store and make herself go back to the flat, hoping that Murdoc would be gone when she got back. She wasn’t that lucky.

He sat up ramrod straight on the couch, twitchy and aggravated already. He followed her step for step into the kitchen, peering over her shoulder.

“Did you get it?”

She pulled a bottle of black-strap rum from the bag, showing it to him. He snorted, turning away.

“I told you to get whiskey.”

Angel’s grip tightened around the neck of the bottle. She could feel her blood pressure spiking. A long moment passed, their eyes locked. She grit her teeth, letting out a long breath from between them. _ Think of the money _ , she recited like a mantra, _ just think about the money _.

“My mistake.” She lowered it back into the bag, her hands shaking. “Do you want me to go back?”

He waved her off, dumping himself into the couch.

“Leave it.”

She released the bag, walking from the counter to the doorway.

“Do you need anything else?”

Murdoc looked at the floor, his teeth grinding.

“... Pour me a drink, will you? I’m going upstairs.”

He leapt from the sofa, storming to the steps. She trailed after him, gripping the banister.

“Then what?”

“Then what, what?”

“What do you want me to do after that?”

He snorted, turning his back to her.

“The hell do I know? You’re supposed to be the assistant. Assist.”

Her mouth fell open as he went upstairs, slamming the door. He was out of his goddamn mind.

The lights were out upstairs, but she could tell he was in the studio, hearing the sound of a guitar being plucked away at. She hovered outside the door, her hand clenched around the knob.

“Shit or get off the pot,” she heard from inside.

She took a deep breath, trying to cleanse the anger from her chest, and stepped inside.

Murdoc was sprawled across the couch, not looking at her as she came in. He had his boots kicked up on the arm, his eyes closed and his sleeves rolled up, a steel-string acoustic guitar in his hands. She cleared her throat, holding out the drink.

He looked at the glass, turning away.

“I’m not in the mood for rum, make something else.”

Something inside her snapped. She slammed the glass down, clacking hard against the desk, so forcefully she thought it might shatter. He was watching her intensely. She shook, nails biting into her palms. A long moment of tension gripped them. This was unbearable. She wanted to smash the glass against his skull. Reason tugged at her, her rage ebbing as she repeated her mantra. _ Think of the money. You need the money. _ She diffused like a bomb, forcing her anger down. She bit her lip, looking away.

“Alright.”

The look on his face was difficult to place, his mouth hung open slightly, his eyes losing their wild focus. He glanced down at the guitar in his lap.

“Just leave it.”

Angel released the glass, taking a step back. She wanted nothing more than to run out of the room.

“Sit for a little bit, love,” he said suddenly.

Rage shot through her. Why in the fuck did he want her to hang around? She hesitated, then sat down, refusing to relax into the couch and sat up straight. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, then closed them, leaning back with the guitar splayed across his hips. He picked at the strings lazily. The wall behind him was hung with instruments–a red Flying V bass, an amber Les Paul, a melodica… Her eyes stopped on a white Stratocaster.

“What did you do before this?” he asked suddenly.

She was caught off-guard by the question.

“I…” She tried to think of a good response but came up empty. “I was taking a little time off.”

“Hm, isn’t that the dream.”

“It wasn’t by choice.”

“Hm,” he grunted.

Her anger spiked.

“I was taking care of my Aunt. She died.”

He stopped for a moment, then picked back up, still turned away.

“Sorry to hear that, love.”

His tuneless noodling turned into a steady rhythm, and it seemed like he didn’t even notice that she was there anymore. His foot bounced to the beat, his eyes still shut, like he was falling asleep. She felt herself relax despite herself, her hands unclenching as he played. He was good, she hated to admit. When he opened his mouth, a voice left him that she barely recognized.

_ Lord hear me now _

_ Junk boats and English boys _

_ Crashing out in supermarts _

_ Electric fences and guns _

_ You swallow me _

_ I'm a pill on your tongue _

_ Here on the nineteenth floor _

_ The neon lights make me calm _

She couldn’t reconcile the man that sat in front of her and what she was hearing. All the tension in her body slipped away, and for a moment she was somewhere else. He was someone else. The sound was soft. It was dream-like. It was disconcerting.

He opened his eyes, looking over at her. The air had changed. The hair on her arms stood on end, goosebumps rising involuntarily. He looked different and she couldn’t pinpoint how.

“Did you write that?” she asked without meaning to.

Murdoc narrowed his eyes for a moment, hesitating.

“Yeah.”

She struggled to find something to say, embarrassment suddenly overtaking her.

“It’s… beautiful. Are you working on an album or something?”

He choked out a laugh.

“Ah, no. Well, yes… But that’s an old one. You haven’t heard it?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

He snorted, looking up at the ceiling.

“You can go,” he finally said. “Leave the drink.”

Angel blinked. She forgot that she had wanted to leave. She stood up, playing with her hands.

“What time do you want me here tomorrow?”

“I’ll text you. There’s some cash in the jar on the kitchen counter. Take it.”

“Do you want anything else?”

“Nah, love, I’m just peachy.”

She felt cut-off, lingering awkwardly in the room before slipping to the door.

“See you,” she said in a small voice.

He waved, never looking over. The door shut with a quiet click.

Murdoc laid there for a long time, just staring at the ceiling, listening to Angel walk down the stairs, rustle around for a bit, then heard the quiet click of the door close. And then nothing. He finally sat up, his joints screaming. Every inch of him ached when he sat in one place for too long. Another reminder of age. He reached for his phone, dialing the same number he’d been calling incessantly for the last few months.

It went to voicemail. Again.

“もしもし! This is Noodle, leave a message!”

He hung up, tossing the phone away. There wasn’t any point in leaving another rambling message to make a fool of himself. Again. Maybe she’d pick up on accident one day and he’d finally get through. 2D and Russel had blocked his number over and over, even after changing it. But Noodle hadn’t. She was his last hope. If there even was any hope left.

The thought of tomorrow lingered. No lawyers would take him on. And the contract… if he couldn't produce another album… He shuddered. He needed help, but every bridge he burned left him trapped on this road alone.

He watched his shoes, emptiness flooding him. He drained the glass Angel left on the desk and went downstairs for more to drown out his thoughts.

Confusion overtook Angel as she made her way back to the flat. She stared at the city passing from the Metro window, unseeing, the grey of evening blanketing the world as buildings whipped past. She felt shaken, and she didn’t know why.

He had turned on a dime, from sassing her like a spoilt child to… a normal human. It rattled her how quickly his mood shifted, and how quickly he made hers change. She couldn’t bring herself to feel the hatred she had when he walked in the door that afternoon, even when she tried to, focusing on him snapping at her and coaxing herself to feel contempt. The sound of his voice rattled around in her brain and wouldn’t let her think of anything else.

How could someone like that create something so unlike himself? How could he make something like that, that felt soft and quiet and warm? It didn't make sense.

The money he'd left was folded up in her pocket. Another 100£. It made her feel sick, in a way. As if he were paying to make up for his attitude. Maybe he was.

She leaned back, closing her eyes. This day was too much, too confusing. The thought of Billy asking around about her scratched the back of her mind. Her head bumped against the window as the train rocked. She wasn't getting hang of herself at all. She was just as strung out as before.

  
  


It wasn’t her alarm that woke her up the next morning. She dropped her phone on the floor, struggling to answer Murdoc’s call. She cleared her throat, bleary-eyed and confused.

“Hello?”

“Hello, turtle dove. It’s your boss!”

He seemed to love reminding her of that. As if she could forget. He sounded cheery, the sourness from yesterday gone.

“Yeah, hi. Sorry, I just woke up.” She rubbed her face, sitting up. "What is it?"

"Today, you're with me."

Angel's face fell. She was awake now.

"What?"

"You'll be helping me dirrrrectly," he drawled.

Her mouth was dry.

"With what?"

"You'll be coming with me to help me make a little deal."

She didn't like the sound of that.

"What?"

“Don’t sound so excited!”

“Wait, I…” she tried to wrangle her racing thoughts. “Where am I meeting you?”

“Outside, right about now.”

Angel ran to the window, looking down at the street. Murdoc was standing out front. She sank to the floor, her hand over her face.

“I’m not ready, I need a minute!”

“Quickly, love. Got places to be!”

She ran to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and wrapped her unbrushed hair up in a crooked, rushed ponytail. She grabbed the long jacket by the door and pulled on her shoes. There wasn’t any time to brush her teeth or slap on makeup. She grabbed up her keys, her phone, and locked the door behind her on her way out.

The red Pontiac from the day before was parked outside, with Murdoc lounging inside, the window rolled down. She slowed to a stop, groaning. Of course that flashy ride was his. He tipped his sunglasses up, all smiles. Nothing like yesterday. He was a revolving door of emotions and she was already motion sick.

“Bonjour, ma chérie! Don’t you look lovely? Enjoying my wardrobe?”

Angel looked down. Underneath her open jacket, she was still wearing Murdoc’s shirt that she'd slept in. Her face burned.

“I need to find a laundromat. My clothes are dirty,” she said quietly.

“No, no, keep it, I insist. Looks better on you than me.”

He slapped the door.

“Alright, enough chit-chat, we’ve got places to be.”

Angel debated about getting in the back seat, then decided there was no way he was going to let her do that, and she climbed into the passenger side, trying not to look at him. But he was beaming at her.

“Where are we going?" she finally worked up the courage to ask.

He grinned, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

"We're going to go hash out a little deal is all."

"We?"

"Hmm, I should've brought you something to wear."

"Why?"

"Well, I need you to look professional today. Frightening, even, haha." He looked at her, flashing a toothy grin, the cigarette hanging from his lips. "Today, you're my lawyer."

Angel's stomach lurched.

"Uh, come again?"

"I would, love, but there's just no time, haha."

Her head was spinning.

"You know I can't do that, right? It's illegal to impersonate a lawyer... right?"

"Aw, well, you're not going to be. You don't have to say much of anything, as long as it goes well. It's implied, and that's not really... impersonating if they never ask you." He flicked his ash out the window. "Just look scary. Can you handle that?"

Her mouth hung open.

"No one is going to believe I'm a lawyer. Murdoc, my hair is blue!"

He wrinkled his nose.

"Yeah, unfortunate choice of color, love. Maybe try black next time, much more refined. Well, I'll just tell them you're related to 2D."

"...Who?"

"Just don't talk too much, okay?"

  
  


He valet parked in front of a tall, glass building, disappearing through the revolving doors as she struggled to keep up. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat. It felt as if her tongue was swelling up to fill her mouth, and her stomach wrenched into a tight ball. She barely heard anything as Murdoc sweet-talked the lobby attendant. Everything was underwater, muffled and distant and blurred. He pulled her by the sleeve to the elevator, snapping her back into reality.

“Alright, all you have to do is get me another few months to deliver on this contract. They just won’t listen to me anymore. I need someone bitchy to rustle them up, get them to bend a little, let them know I’ve still got a few strings to pull. Can you do bitchy?”

She shot him a sour look.

“Yeah, like that.”

He ushered her into the elevator, pressing the button behind him. She could feel herself starting to hyperventilate. Murdoc smoothed down her jacket, buttoning it up over his black shirt. He glanced down at her jeans and flats.

"That's not my fault," she whispered. "I didn't know!"

He patted her stomach.

"Just sell the rest and maybe no one will look too close. That's how I get away with it, hahaha."

She rushed to pull her tangled hair up into a bun, the elevator rocketing like a bullet up to the 24th floor. Her ears popped.

“Now, make sure you put on a good act, love. I’m counting on you.”

Angel rubbed her face, her body trembling.

“I still don’t understand what it is you want me to do!”

“Just muscle up! Look scary, do whatever as long as I can get out of this for another couple months!”

“Get out of what?!”

“Just buy me more time!”

The elevator slid open, revealing a short, round man clutching a stack of papers. They straightened up.

“Hellloooo,” Murdoc drawled, stepping out. “You must be Finn.”

“_ Mr. _Finn, yes. And you must be Murdoc.”

“_ Doctor _ Murdoc! I didn’t get the degree for nothing.”

He side-stepped, letting Angel out behind him.

"And this," he gestured to her, "is my counsel, Miss Anastasia."

Angel wanted so badly to slap him across the face.

"She's uh, 2D's cousin."

She gave a nod, managing a stoic, "Hello."

They were led into a glass-walled meeting room, and sat side-by-side at the end of a long table. Murdoc leaned back in his chair, trying to exude aloofness, and failing. He looked just as nervous as she felt.

Angel didn't know what to say so she just stared at Finn from across the table, her lips pressed into a thin line. She tried to channel her 9th-grade math teacher and folded her hands tight, trying to look scary. She was quaking.

Clearing his throat, Finn rustled about with the papers in front of him. Murdoc grinned at her. She mouthed ‘fuck you’. Angel turned back to the man as he slid a packet across the table to her.

“Well, everything is here. The deadline is solid,” he said, staring at Murdoc as the last words left his mouth.

Murdoc chuckled nervously, leaning his elbow on the table.

“Listen, I know you’ve got your minds made up, but I need a liiiiittle more time. You know how slippery the rest of them are. I’ve run into… unexpected delays getting the group back together. It’s been six years since we… since I saw the lot of ‘em. So… Can’t we just tack on a few months to the deadline?”

“No,” he said firmly.

Murdoc leaned back, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He was staring daggers at her. Angel cleared her throat and positioned the contract in front of her, trying to focus on the words as they jumped around. Her mouth was dry.

It was lengthy and extremely difficult to decipher. Something about the record label owning the rights to the songs from a band named 'Gorillaz', and a bunch of jargon that she thought meant that the label wanted him to produce an album in exchange for his release from… imprisonment. She glanced over at him, then back to the contract. That couldn't have been right.

They sat in silence as she read every word, desperately trying to understand it. Ten minutes slipped by.

The man shifted, clearing his throat.

“You don’t have to read it all.”

She looked up, her face unchanging.

“Mr. Niccals is paying me by the hour. I sit here as long as he pays me to. Your time isn’t my concern.”

He grunted, folding his hands on the table. Angel turned the page, her eyes darting over each line.

_ 'The signing party has thirty days from the date signed to deliver a final mix of an album of at least twelve completed tracks in length.' _

She finally closed up the packet, and he grunted again, moving to slide the contract back over to his side of the table and clicking his pen.

“Seems in order?”

Angel had no idea if it was fair or not. She could barely understand half of the contract at all. But Murdoc brought her there to throw her weight around. She tried desperately to remember all the legal TV shows she’d seen over the years and stared at him from across the table, her eyes cold.

“Do you think so?”

He stammered, sorting the papers around in front of him aimlessly.

“Mr. Niccals’ terms of production for our label aren’t up for discussion. This is the offer, it’s the best he’s going to get. There’s nothing else my superiors will agree to. He has one month, and that's all. And if he doesn’t deliver, he’s going back to wearing an orange jumpsuit.”

Angel had no idea what to say. It seemed like they had their minds made up. And what did she have to leverage? She didn’t even understand the situation they were in any better after reading the contract than when she’d walked in. But she had to say something.

“Do you really expect me to just accept that?”

“This isn’t a discussion, we’re only here to sign the papers.”

She wet her lips, reigning in her shaking voice.

“My client isn’t signing anything without an extended deadline.” Words came tumbling out as she desperately tried to come up with something coherent. “You think you’re going to get something marketable in a month? And honestly, do you think Mr. Niccals' original contract would hold up well in court?"

His eyes narrowed.

“I–”

Fear egged her on.

"We want five months."

"Five? Absolutely not."

"Five, or we drag this out in court for six months instead."

Murdoc’s mouth hung open. Finn blustered, adjusting his glasses.

"_ Ms. _ Anastasia, I don't know who you think you're talking to but–"

She got up from the table, the chair screeching against the floor. Her palms were sweating. She had to get out. She could feel herself about to cry. But her face was stone-cold, and drained of color. She looked frightening.

“Thank you for wasting our time. Call me when you change your mind.”

She had no idea what she was doing, but she was too far in to stop. Her legs shook as she walked to the door. Murdoc followed behind her, looking dazed. The man gathered himself up, rushing to keep up with them.

Angel got into the elevator, pressing the lobby button.

"Wait!"

She reached out, stopping the doors. It was like someone else was talking from inside her. All she wanted to do was leave. She needed to get out.

"Mr. Finn, as much as I would love to hear your excuses, I have other meetings today that are actually worth going to, so goodbye."

"I'll talk to the board, maybe I can get them to offer… more agreeable terms."

Angel was quiet for a moment.

"We'll consider it. Draw up a new contract and email a copy to my client for his consideration." She looked him in the eye. "Unless you'd like to read the new one in person again."

Murdoc was beaming, giving a little wave.

“Ta!”

The elevator doors closed with a tiny thump, and bolted them downwards. Angel let out a long breath, wiping nervous tears from the corners of her eyes. The air rushed out of her like a deflating balloon. Murdoc grabbed her around the middle, pulling her into a death grip side-hug. He messed her hair.

"You are something, love. Nearly had me buying it!" He pressed a finger to her chest. "You can be a real bitch when you want to be! And I mean that in the best possible way. You had me a little hot under the collar!"

She was so nervous she thought she was going to puke.

He led her out of the elevator, flipping his sunglasses down over his eyes.

"You know what? We're going to go get a drink."

Puking seemed more favorable.

The restaurant was more frightening than the meeting.

Each red booth curved around a small table with white cloths, so small that you almost had to sit in the person's lap next to you. Murdoc slid in like liquid and she hovered at the booth. She could feel him and the host staring at her. She bent her knees to sit on the very edge, as far away from him as possible without being on the floor.

A menu appeared in front of her, and before she could look at the host for one last glance at someone besides her dinner companion, he was gone. Angel picked at her sleeve.

“I uh, I didn't know we'd be going somewhere this nice."

“Don’t worry about it, you’re overdressed, I’d say.”

Her patchwork outfit certainly left something to be desired. Angel looked around at the people around who looked like they could buy her whole life a thousand times over.

She shrank under their gazes. She could feel a dozen eyes on them all at once. Some looked over their shoulder subtly, some stared openly, but all talked quietly amongst themselves, and Angel could tell it was about both of them.

“They're all staring,” she muttered to him, pulling at her sleeves.

“Yeah, they do that,” he snorted back, smirking. “Some of 'em recognize me, I'm sure. And some of 'em don't like people like us being here.”

“People like us?”

Angel couldn't imagine what she and Murdoc could possibly have in common—any tangible or figurative factor that ran through the both of them, even to a stranger.

“Common people,” he said in a mocking voice. “People of low-birth.”

She didn't know if he was making fun of her or not. She kept her mouth shut and gripped the menu tighter.

She'd never been to a place without prices on the menu. It made her nerves buzz.

"What uh… what are you getting?" she asked in a small voice.

"Oh! I'm not hungry, love. I'm here for the drinks, the atmosphere, and the company."

That made it even worse. Her stomach was flipping over on itself. She hadn't eaten all day, but she dreaded eating alone in front of him, staring at her all the while.

Murdoc cracked a grin at the waiter, fanning himself with the menu.

"Annette, have whatever you'd like to drink. I'll put it on the company card, haha. You deserve it after that award-winning act."

"Oh, uh…"

Her mind raced. Suddenly she couldn't remember anything she'd ever drank. There was no cocktail list, and nothing on the frighteningly expensive wine list looked familiar. Murdoc looked up at the server, breaking up her babbling.

"I'll have a Pisco Sour. And for the lady…" He narrowed his eyes at her, tapping his nails against the table, searching her face. He snapped his fingers. "A Sidecar."

She was both mad that Murdoc had the gall to order for her, and relieved that she didn't have to flounder like a fool trying to think of something to say.

What came to her was a little drink in a coupe, with a thick orange rind twisted into a spiral resting on the rim. Murdoc's Pisco looked like a little yellow bird with a thick layer of foam lying across the top. It nearly sloshed over the side when he went to grab it up, tilting it towards her.

"Well, here's to your new law degree, love. Thank Satan you have such a stoic face! I'll pose you as my security next time."

She hesitantly clinked her glass to his, tentatively lifting the rim to her lips. It was… good. She'd expected a trick, but it was lightly sour and sweet and strong. Not unpleasant.

She glanced back at the menu, fondling the stem of the glass. He snorted, leaning on his palm.

"If you don't hurry up and pick something I'm going to choose that for you, too. So indecisive!" he poked at her, smirking.

"I'm… not that hungry either."

"Look," he sighed, "let me give you some advice: when someone with money offers you something, you take it. They've got enough to spare, make 'em bleed when you can."

He unbuttoned the top of his collar, leaning back.

"Aaaaaand if you turn it down again I'll make them bring out the dessert cart and everyone will enjoy that."

Angel looked up to say something, but he wasn't looking at her anymore. His eyes were fixed, intent and alert, on the tablecloth. She shut her mouth, wondering if he finally snapped. Maybe this was normal, like a fit or something, she thought to herself. But as she watched him concentrating on the white fabric, she realized he was listening to something. Angel strained her ear and could hear the man beside them, muttering to his date, low, but loud enough to hear.

“He shouldn't be let in here. You know what he's like. This isn't a pub. You remember the incident in Camden? You remember reading that paper? Ridiculous. He's a tramp.”

She didn't quite understand what he meant, but she knew who he was talking about. Murdoc just stared at the table, but she could tell he was listening from the strange look growing on his face—not quite a grimace or a smile, but something in between. There was a good five seconds where she thought he was about to turn in his seat and leap on the guy. Murdoc's fist clenched on the tabletop, then released.

He looked up at her, smiling.

He flagged down the waiter, motioning him back over.

“Hey, could you do me a favor?”

He leaned over and whispered something into the man's ear.

“I'm sorry sir, I can't do that. I'd be—“

Murdoc cut him off by tucking a fold of bills into his hand. The waiter looked down at it.

“I don't think that would be a problem, sir.”

“And a bottle of wine, Prosecco or Grigio or whatever girls are drinking most, lately.”

And Murdoc bided his time, smirking, tapping his long fingernails against the cold surface of the bottle as it leaned in the ice bucket. Angel leaned forward, trying to whisper.

“What are you doing?”

She was glad for the distraction, that his attention was, for the moment, not directly focused on her. Her interest had been piqued in what he was planning. His red eye bored into her.

“Fighting in a place like this doesn't get you much besides a lifetime ban, love. Believe me. I’ve been thrown out of enough establishments. There's other ways to pick a fight. That's a free life lesson for you.”

Angel narrowed her eyes, looking from him to the back of the man's head behind him. The same waiter approached him and knocked over the glass of water on his tray, spilling it all over the man's lap. He shot to his feet, snapping at the waiter and rubbing the wet spot on his trousers. He threw his napkin down, storming down the aisle towards the bathrooms.

Murdoc gripped the neck of the wine, smiling.

“Be right back.”

He slid into the booth with the man’s wife, placing the bottle down on the table. Angel watched him out of the corner of her eye, trying not to stare directly.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt you,” he said to the woman in a sickly sweet voice that sounded strange coming from him. “But I feel like I met you before, at a gala or somewhere?”

She seemed flustered, stammering.

“Oh! Um, I don't think so. Maybe...”

He snapped his fingers.

“There was a Brit Awards party last year, I'm sure I talked to you there. You had a little gold purse with a pearl clasp? You’d just gotten back from Milan?”

Angel's mouth hung open. What an easy liar. The woman seemed at a loss for words, smoothing her hair down.

“O-oh, you must have me confused with someone else.”

“Are you sure? Oh you look just like that woman, just as charming,” he said, flashing a smile of sharp teeth.

Angel watched the woman go rigid—hook, line, and sinker.

He patted the bottle, condensation trickling down the curve of the glass and pooling on the table.

“Well, I wanted to give a little gift for re-finding a lost connection, but a new one is just as pleasant. Miss…?”

“Oh, er, Rachel McKinnley.”

He held out his hand to take hers, shaking it very gently.

“Rachel, what a lovely name. Murdoc Niccals, very pleased to meet you. For the first time, I suppose.” He leaned in a bit. “You do seem like you would be the life of a good party. There's a small gathering for those who enjoy a bit of music and a bit of wine next Tuesday, at the Ruby Lounge. If you'd be interested, just tell them you're my guest at the front,” he said with a wink. “And bring… whoever you'd like.”

She tried to make words come out.

“O-oh, that sounds… very entertaining.”

He perked up, pulling away.

“Wonderful! Enjoy the wine, Miss Rachel, my treat. I hope to see you again soon!”

And without waiting for an answer, he stood, nodded, and retreated briskly back to the booth, sliding in next to Angel. She was speechless.

“Who… the hell are you?”

His grin was malicious.

“A tramp.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged warnings: this chapter mentions an anxiety attack

"He's a psychopath, Fran."

"I'm sure he's not that bad, Darla certainly made him sound like all that. Said he was a big shot or something."

Angel blew smoke from the corner of her mouth, leaning against the balcony. She only smoked when she was anxious, and her nerves from that morning had never calmed.

"He's that asshole from the party, you remember? That climbed on the table?"

"Oh good God…"

"The man's... something else I'll tell you."

"Well, at least he's not too bad looking, right?"

"He's crazy! He's nuts! He's rude and mean and just… bizarre!"

"Oh, you didn't disagree about his looks, though."

Angel's face went hot. She was glad Fran wasn't there to see.

"I don't care what he looks like! He's out of his goddamn mind! He can't remember my fucking name. Or he's fucking around with me, which is even worse. And he’s got me running around and doing shit that isn’t my job. I might have never been an assistant before, but I know impersonating legal counsel isn’t in the description."

"You should look him up."

She let out a long drag.

"God, I don't know if I want to find out anything more about him."

"I will if you don't."

"No! Please, I don't want to."

“I’m doing it right now.”

“Fran!”

“Ohh! Says he’s—”

Angel hung up, tossing the phone on the mattress inside. Nerves pulsed through her.

She went to wash the few dishes in the sink, trying to push everything out of her mind. But she could hear Fran's voice in her ear, "Look him up." She'd resisted this long, she didn’t know if she wanted to find out.

She drummed her fingers against the counter. Maybe she could just look up the band he was in? That would be enough.

She typed in the name from the contract in the meeting. Her heart stopped.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

She jumped from page to page. World tours. Millions of copies sold. Top charts UK, US, and global. They worked with Lou Reed, Snoop Dogg, De La Soul, the list went on and on. The color drained from her face. There was Murdoc grinning with a Grammy. He was the band's leader, songwriter, bass player. He hadn't been blowing smoke. He was genuine, real, actual big league.

And she was fetching his mail.

She rubbed her face, laying flat on her back. How in the fuck could this happen to her? She was mortified. He must have thought she was the absolute dumbest person alive. She thought she was.

The urge to dig deeper chewed at her, but she had to throw the breaks on. It was public knowledge, sure, but now she felt like she was getting too personal. It made her uncomfortable.

She set the phone down, lighting up another cigarette and letting it burn between her fingers. It was all too much to take in. It didn’t feel real. She quietly wished she’d never come to Manchester.

Five months.

Five months.

He should have been relieved, but the edge of the deadline cut deep. He’d tried them all again, over and over. No response from anyone.

He dug his nails into the leather arm of the couch, leaving deep gouges. His arms were scratched up until they were raw and dotted with bleeding spots. And even that pain wasn’t even enough to distract for a moment. Cold sweat beaded his neck. His breaths came in quick, short bursts, his chest weighed down with a thousand tons. Crushing. Unbearable. Even liquor failed to dull the agony of his body shuddering on its own.

One red candle burned at the far end of the room, the only light in the dark. He had to talk to someone. It didn't matter who. Anyone, anything to drown out the ringing of the silence in his own ears. With silence came thoughts, and with thoughts came…

He grabbed up his phone.

He knew who would pick up.

Angel rubbed her face. The glow of her screen burned her eyes in the darkness. It was one in the morning. And of course it was him.

Her heart raced. She took a long breath. He wasn't any different now than he was before, she had to remind herself. She cursed herself for digging. As if she had needed more of a reason to be anxious around him.

She swallowed against her dry throat, lifting the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Helllloooo, love. It's me, it's your boss!"

"Y-yeah I know it's you, Murdoc." She sat up, ready to put her shoes on. "What do you need?"

"Oh, I don't need anything!"

Angel stared at the wall. The fear of him wicked away. Something else was quickly welling up inside her.

"Then why… are you calling me… at one in the morning?"

"I had a question for you!"

Her patience was at an end.

"_ About? _"

"Oh… hmm… what was it? It seems to have slipped my mind."

"Okay, I'm hanging up then..."

"Nonononono! I-I just remembered, it was something important!"

"What?"

He scratched at the leather, clawing a run in the upholstery, his foot tapping against the rug.

"Ah, that woman at the restaurant…"

"...Yeah?"

"What was her name again? It's slipped through my usually iron-clad memory!"

Angel squinted, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, uh… it was an 'R' name…"

"Renee?"

"No."

"Rebecca?"

"No."

"Ruth?"

"No. I can't remember if you keep saying names."

She hobbled off the futon, her legs weak.

"...Rita?" he piped up.

"Ugh…"

She dropped a tea bag into a cup, filling it from the tap.

"Oh! Was it Rubella?"

"That's a disease," Angel mumbled, setting the cup in the microwave.

"Ah, right, heh-heh." He sighed. "What a mess! I wasn't lying about inviting her to that fancy dress. I want to see if she'll show with her bastard husband. But how will I win her dear little bourgeoisie heart and screw her behind her bloke's back if I can't remember her name? Was it Reagan?"

"That's the girl from the Exorcist."

"Hmmm, I'm sure she'd be a fine woman by now. Too bad she's not possessed anymore, that would be a plus."

"She pissed on the carpet."

"Well, haven't we all?"

The microwave beeped. He zeroed in on it, desperate to talk about anything. Anything to fill up time with that wasn’t the thoughts in his own head.

"Ooh, having ourselves a little midnight snack, eh?"

"I'm making tea."

"In the microwave! Oh sweet Satan, what a sin!" He faked a gag. "You could always swing by, could make you a real cuppa. I'll just dock a bit of your pay."

She paused, blinking.

"Uh…"

"Ah-hah-hah, pay no attention to me, I've had a few bottles of pirate rum and I'm feeling a bit cheeky. Just pulling your leg, love. Don't get your knickers in a bunch. As if I'd make tea for you. You're my assistant, not the other way around. Rachel?"

"Yes! That was her name."

Fuck, he didn't mean to get it right. He'd run out of "R" names and slipped.

"Is that all you needed?"

His mouth moved faster than his brain.

"Well of course! You think I'd dial you up to have a recreational chat? I'm not about to mingle outside of work, don't get your hopes up!"

"O-okay."

"Ta!"

He hung up.

Angel looked at her phone. Was he just playing around with her again? He was truly insufferable.

Murdoc slid down on the couch, clenching his nails into his fists until they bit red into his skin. That hadn’t been enough. He drummed his fingers on the coffee table, shaking. The idea of calling her back with some other made-up excuse rattled around in his head before he got to his feet, pacing the room as hours dripped painfully on.

She took twice as long to get to the house the next morning, snaking around the long way, crossing the street and back, counting the sidewalk cracks, anything to keep herself from getting there faster. The morning was crisp and cool, and she was in absolutely no hurry to be face to face with a madman with an MTV award.

She passed by a cafe, wandering inside to give herself another excuse to drag her feet. It wasn't like he would notice what time she showed up. She was forcibly emptying her mind, focusing only on the menu, what she was going to get.

The line wasn't nearly as long as she'd hoped. She forced a smile, reaching into her pocket as she went upfront.

"Hi, I'll have a medium mocha. And—"

She shut her mouth up tight. _ And? And what? _ The cashier was looking at her.

"A-and a medium coffee, please."

_ What the fuck? _ Was it just on instinct that she ordered for him too?

She shuffled out of line, taking a seat to stare at her shoes. She had to calm herself down. She was getting worked up over nothing. What was there to even be afraid of? He'd already made fun of her, shoved her around, and made her angry as hell every minute. What more did she have to be scared of? But the power balance frightened her, whether it actually mattered or not.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pretended not to feel it.

And again.

She gripped the coffee in her hand, wishing she'd never left the flat at all.

She peeked at the screen, relief washing over her. It was Fran.

'Hey, did you look him up yet?? Please tell me you saw that photo of him in his knickers, his dick is huge! Jump on that shit.'

She set the phone down on the table and leaned her face in her hands. _ Drop dead, Fran_.

It was hard to find another excuse to be late as the sky opened up and dumped buckets of rain into the streets. She dove from shopfront to shopfront, her new flats filling with water as she went. Thunder boiled in the sky, She let herself in, peering inside. There weren't any lights on, the hallway glowed with an eerie light that spilled in from the transom window, and it was quiet. It didn't seem like Murdoc was home.

She peeled her jacket off, hanging it on the hook beside the door, running her fingers through her soaked hair, water trickling down her face. The flats squished as she walked, leaving wet tracks from the door as she flicked on the hall light.

"FUCK!"

Angel reeled back, nearly dropping the extra coffee. He was stretched out in the chair in the dark of the living room, a sour look on his face. He wasn't looking at her.

Angel hovered in the doorway. The air around him was thick and pulsing with malice. It made her skin prickle. She struggled to slow her heart, her hand wrenched around the cup.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

He didn't say anything, but his eyes slid downwards. She looked over.

The lamp was lying shattered on the floor. She stared at the golden woman, broken in half, flecks of glass ground into the black carpet, the lampshade crushed into a crescent moon. His ashtray had been upended, soot sprinkled all over the place. The switchblade was buried in a painting of a witches' gathering on the far wall, hanging dangerously off-kilter on its wire. The table sat crooked, the pillows leaked feathers, and the garbage pail had its contents spilled onto the floor. The more she looked, the worse the room got. He growled, looking away from her.

"Don't ask," he grunted.

She wasn't about to.

The couch looked like it'd had a cat set on it, long scratches running down the arms. She couldn't decide if he'd had a rough night of sex or tantrums. She was waiting for him to say something, say anything. He'd never been this quiet and it set her on edge.

She peeked into the kitchen, counting eight empty beer cans on the counter and at least a dozen ground-out cigarettes. A smashed bottle laid scattered in pieces across the floor. She stepped around the shards, cracking open the fridge. There was an empty case of beer and nothing else.

Angel walked to the doorway, gripping the frame tight.

"Are you hungry?" she said suddenly. She didn't know why. It was the only thing she could think of. She'd never actually seen him eat the whole time. "You never have anything in the fridge. Do you want me to get you something?"

He glared at her from under his hair, and turned away, picking at a thread unraveling from the arm of the chair.

"No."

She leaned on the doorframe.

"Okay. Alright."

The silence was painful. Angel's throat was dry.

The crack in the heavy curtains cut a line of light over his face, slashing through his red eye, the rod hanging crooked on its hook. He watched her from under his hair as she walked over to the window, pulling the curtains open halfway. The blue light of the storm filled the room, thunder rumbling low over the city. She cracked the window a bit, a cool, humid breeze slipping in. The smell of wet pavement whisked through. He glanced at the rain dripping down the glass before averting his eyes to the floor when she turned around. She examined the shelf of records along the wall, flipping through them. Murdoc stared daggers into her back, nails clenched into the leather. She pulled one out, carefully slipping it from its paper sleeve and carried it over to the turntable.

Usually, he would have shot to his feet and given her a reaming for touching his collection, but instead, he simmered, watching her place the needle down. He’d exhausted himself into momentary compliance.

“Here.”

He scowled, snapping his head up to look at her. A cup of coffee appeared on the table in front of him.

“I stopped by and got some this morning. I uh… I didn’t know how you take it.”

A snake coiled in his stomach. A thousand poisonous things wriggled in his mouth. His lips curled up and he turned away, keeping them all to himself.

She disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving him simmering alone. He stared at the lamp shattered on the floor, considering what else he could throw around. He thought of grabbing up the cup and whipping it against the wall, splattering the contents all over the floor. He imagined the horrified, angry look on her face. Would she yell or run away? He leaned over, peeking into the kitchen. She was getting out a roll of garbage bags from under the sink.

The pit inside him grew as he stared at the cup. He couldn't stand it. This was worse than being ignored or screamed at. He'd have rather gotten into a fistfight than be pitied. He was chucking the coffee across the room over and over in his mind. She walked back in, shaking the bag open.

"I'll get this cleaned up."

Murdoc was just staring at the cup. Angel’s nerves bit at her. Maybe there was something really wrong. She walked over to him and he didn’t even seem to notice, his eyes distant.

“Murdoc?”

Thunder rumbled, the breeze whistling through the crack. She reached out and touched the back of his hand. He jerked back, startled. He looked frightened.

"No," he croaked. "Leave it."

She looked down at him, confused.

"There’s glass all over." He said nothing. Angel glanced around the room, finding a new mess everywhere she looked. "Don't you have something you want me to do?"

He got to his feet, startling her.

"Do whatever you want. I'm going out."

Angel's mouth fell open, and she was moving along behind him on instinct.

"But, what—"

"Can't you think for yourself?!" he snapped, rounding on her. "Or do you need me to spell everything out for you?"

“I—”

“Just leave me alone!”

His eyes were red and wet and he gave her a pained look before whipping around and slamming the door behind him.

The house creaked, the gentle patter of rain the only sound beside her breathing. Tiny bubbles welled up in the corners of her eyes. Even with him gone, she was afraid to move. She wiped her eyes hard on her sleeves, turning back to the living room. The wind cut in through the gap in the window, blowing a stack of papers off the table and scattered them across the floor. She got to her knees, picking up shards of glass and collecting them in her palm. Streaks of tears dripped from her jaw.

It was too much. She had to get out of this.

Murdoc sat bent over on the steps, rain soaking him through, his shoulders shaking.


	6. Chapter 6

A day passed without Murdoc saying a word to her. When he'd come back to the house, Angel was gone, and the living room had been cleaned, the glass gone, the couch resettled. The switchblade had been pulled from the painting on the wall and laid closed on the table, and the coffee sat stone-cold and untouched beside it.

He hovered in the doorway, staring. He debated calling her, but couldn't bring himself to, dragging his sore body up the stairs in the dark. It wasn’t his problem anyway. It wasn’t his fault, that’s just how things were and if she couldn’t hack it, then that was on her. He rubbed his face in the mirror, the liquor beginning to wane, leaving him weightless and dizzy. His reflection stared back, fuzzy and far away, like music heard in another room. He scoffed, kicking off his boots in the hall. He didn’t know why he’d freaked out. If there was anyone that could scrape together an album in five months, it was him. It was always him pulling the real weight, doing the real work. It would be easy.

A long groan left him as he fell into bed, feeling like he was falling through the floor. It would be easy. Easy. Easy. He passed out in his jeans.

Fear returned to him with the morning, and as the liquor left him, his nerves riled up. He texted her in the afternoon as he nursed a hangover in his sunglasses, legs kicked out in front of him on the patio of a cafe.

"Amelia, it's me, Murdoc. I need to make some calls around to some folks and shake a few trees. Come 'round about noon."

He rubbed his thumb against the stem of a wine glass, tipping his glasses down to smile at a pair of girls whispering to each other as they passed.

Minutes passed into an hour and she still hadn't replied. That wasn't like her. Or at least he thought so. He guessed he really didn't know what she was like much at all. He tapped his fingers against the table. It was too early to worry. Maybe she was just busy. It wasn’t like she had a set schedule.

“Another one?”

He snapped up, his heart racing.

“What?”

The waitress took a step back, wiggling the empty glass between her fingers.

“Another glass?”

He laughed, leaning forward.

“Ah, yes, thank you.” He stared at his phone. “Thanks.”

He waited till noon, then one, then two. A prickling sensation overtook him. He tried her again.

"You alright, love?"

Nothing.

He tapped his nails against the table, his chest clenching. One more person icing him out. It was agony. He paced, arguing with himself. He should’ve been making calls, looking around, trying to grab any loose ends he could think of. But he couldn’t focus, couldn’t make his damned brain settle for one moment to figure out where to start. He needed someone to sort it out. And Angel had proven herself useful. She could do the running around, she’d do whatever.

But she was gone too.

_ Ruined it. _

He shook his head. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe there was something wrong. Maybe she'd gotten hurt, or maybe her mobile service got cut off. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe.

_ Ruined it. _

_ Ruined it. _

He climbed up the stairs to the studio, trying to force the thoughts down. He just needed time. He just needed to calm down. He didn't have the time to waste waiting on her anyway. He collapsed onto the couch, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and leaned over to grab his lighter from the table. He froze, eyes traveling up to the line of guitars hanging along the wall, and one empty space.

It felt strange going back to the flat, as if it wasn't his anymore and he was intruding. But he had to know. The silence was eating him. He knocked softly on the door.

“Angela?”

He knocked again, pressing his ear to the door.

“Ange’?”

A cold shiver ran up his spine. He got out his keys.

“I’m coming in, love, alright?”

He hadn’t been to the flat in months, and it barely looked the same. He flicked on the light, closing the door behind him. She’d cleaned it up well, and the musty smell was gone. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything in the flat at all. Her two pairs of shoes were set next to the door, and the kitchen was clean, no dishes in the sink. He peeked into the closet. Six hangers. He glanced down. His clothes were set neatly in a laundry basket. And there was… not much else. _ How boring_, he thought.

“Helloooooo?” he called, peeking into the bathroom.

He was alone.

He paced into the kitchen. As few things as she had, they were still here, so she couldn’t have taken off forever. He leaned up against the sink, his chest tight. What the fuck did she do with his guitar? Pawn it for some cash? Not like he’d never done it, but he was surprised she had the nerve to. Maybe she’d played the long game and pulled one over on him. Maybe she’d just been playing that she didn’t know him. But his bass would’ve gotten her much, much more. Why take the cheap Strat?

A yellow flyer on the counter caught his eye, torn at the bottom. He slid it over, his eyes flicking over the page. A poster for a shitty little “battle of the bands” in a run-down pub. He hadn't been in that position in quite some time. He knew the routine: half-drunk duds with guitars looking for a couple quid to cover rent at the end of the month.

He coughed out a laugh, relief emptying his lungs.

“Ah, you're scraping the bottom, huh,” he muttered to himself.

She'd torn off the address, but he knew where it was. He'd played there.

He parked a couple of streets away, fixing the collar of his leopard print shirt in the rearview mirror and tugging at his jacket until it looked just disheveled enough. He pulled his canvas guitar case from the backseat, slinging it over his shoulder and hurrying through the misting rain. The Bull's Head was right around the corner.

A slight, wispy man crooning uncomfortably into a microphone greeted Murdoc when he slunk into the bar. He sneered. Some Hall & Oates cover, or at least he guessed it was supposed to be. He shouldered his way over to the end of the bar, gripping the strap of his case. He hoped he wasn't too late for the real show. He ordered a whiskey on the rocks.

“Preference?”

“Bottom shelf, I'm not a millionaire,” he snorted.

The man on the tiny stage awkwardly stammered a “thank you” into the mic and shuffled off to scattered, polite applause.

A squat, red-nosed man, shaking his head, approached the microphone and squinted at a clipboard in his hands.

“Thank you for that… riveting performance.”

Murdoc rolled his eyes, knocking a deep sip back. He couldn't believe he used to play here.

A let-down line up came and went from the little stage, some belting and some whispering covers of The Clash and Bob Dylan. One particular stand out did a rendition of Joy Division's “Love Will Tear Us Apart” entirely on jazz flute. Murdoc wished he was dead. He started giving up that Angel would actually turn up at all.

And then there she was. With the Stratocaster looped around her neck.

She'd put on her heels and let her hair down.

She adjusted and readjusted the mic, looking at her hands the whole time. She stared silently at the crowd, taking a deep breath. Murdoc snorted, lifting the glass to his mouth. He couldn't wait for a shy little Zombies song, or some other tame something she'd memorized.

She ran her hands over the body of the guitar, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

The Strat screamed to life, piercing the silence of the bar, and Angel's voice didn't seem her own.

“_I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation!"_ she yelled into the mic.

Murdoc's whiskey shot up his sinuses, throwing him into a coughing fit that got drowned out in the guitar and Angel's deafening voice. Everyone in the bar who had been circling their glasses were locked onto her.

“_A girl will do what she wants to do, and that's what I'm gonna do! And I don't give a damn 'bout my bad reputation!"_

He sucked in a breath, pounding on his chest. A smile split his face as he coughed. Her voice was loud, gritty, and dark. Nothing like her. She moved with the jerky beat, her pink pick flashing against the metal of the guitar.

“_Never said I wanted to improve my station!"_

She was a new person, unshy, certain. Interesting. Her eyes were turned to the bar, but she wasn't looking at anything. She was somewhere else. He knew that place. He kicked the rest of the whiskey back and grabbed up his case.

She could play. Not just picking sadly away at a song she memorized at home for fun. She could actually play. That was what he needed.

“_And I'm never gonna care about my bad reputation!"_

He moved past the staring crowd towards the stage.

“_Oh no, not me! Not me!"_

The room went dead silent, the guitar reverberating, an echo in the amp until it died down into the quiet too. Her shoulders shook, panting out a huge breath as she looked up at the rest of the bar. Sparse clapping became fair applause. Her lungs popped into a breath of relief.

She looked down towards the front of the stage. And there was a man dead center, staring at her. Her blood went cold. Murdoc smirked up at her.

“Nice set, love.”

A stone sunk in her stomach and her mouth went dry. She unplugged her guitar, rushing off the stage, shrugging the instrument off as she went. She heard his heels clacking behind her, going up the steps and dogging her into a back room.

“So, when were you planning on telling me?”

She rushed to the case, placing the guitar inside and snapping the lid shut.

“Sorry. I didn't think you would notice if I borrowed it for one night. I was going to put it back after.”

“Oh, we'll settle up with that later. I was talking about Joan Jett back there.”

He set his own case down. Angel squirmed, her palm sweaty on the handle. He had his back to her, and she took the chance to start edging towards the back door.

“I… uh… that's um, that's what I did back home. I thought I could make some… extra money.”

He unzipped the case, not looking at her.

“What a coincidence, me too.”

He pulled out a bass, matte black with a red strap. Angel stopped.

“You're… here for this?”

“Of course,” he laughed, slinging the strap over his shoulder, looking at her from under his bangs. “Why else?”

“But you're...”

“Oh just because I'm in the big leagues means I can't slum it where I started, eh?”

“That's not what I thought.”

That's exactly what she thought.

He sighed a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, cocking his hip to one side.

“See, the only problem is… my voice is amazing, sure, but it's not… commercial. I was really hoping I might pair up with someone here.”

His eyes were bullets. This could not be happening. Angel's guts squirmed.

“Oh, uh well I already went, so… I should probably go.”

“Well, I'm sure that won't be a problem. D'you like Heart?” He moved past her. “Ah! Is he the big boss?”

He moved over to the manager, who was scribbling on his clipboard. Angel couldn't hear what they were saying over the rush of blood in her ears. She felt as if someone was stuffing cotton into her skull, her thoughts swelled up and burst into a sheer wave of panic. Her lungs felt as if they would pop.

Suddenly Murdoc was herding the manager over to her, and her hearing snapped back in.

“I mean, having the leader of Gorillaz, _ the _ Gorillaz, playing on this stage… I mean how could you say no?” Murdoc encouraged, gesturing over to Angel. “Give her another go with me out there, I need a band-mate.”

“Uh, well that's all well and fine, Mister Gorilla… but we've never had someone… compete against themselves?”

Murdoc was already working his bass into tune, brushing the man off.

“Well, it's really _ my _ turn, not hers,” he said. “Besides, when's the last time your little pub had a crowd this lively, eh? Got 'em buyin' booze, it's good for business, eh?”

He drummed his fingers against the clipboard, mulling it over.

“Okay, yeah, one more go. But I'm not payin' out double! You split, or nothing.”

“Great! Good man!” He slid his eyes over to her. “You know 'Barracuda', right?”

He moved right past her, right onto the stage.

Angel's insides twisted in a mix between absolute horror and sheer terror. She prayed she'd wake up from this nightmare before she reached the stage. It was run now and get nothing, or stay and be humiliated on stage and get half. She wished she'd just stayed home.

She peeked from behind the curtain. Murdoc was already plugging himself in, testing the sound. The throng of people in the bar murmured and looked. Some, it seemed, recognized him and a few snapped pictures from their phones in a less-than-discreet way. He willfully ignored them, but adjusted himself to pose.

Angel clapped her hands to her face. She must have done something horrible. She had died and gone straight to hell.

She gripped the neck of the guitar, stepping out onto the open, shaking in her heels. Murdoc didn't even seem like he noticed her. Angel swallowed against her dry throat. She'd played this song in her room, only performing it for herself. She remembered the chords, the lyrics, but nothing about this felt familiar. Or safe.

She felt as if she'd never been on stage before. The faces that had just been looking at her moments before looked like demons, waiting to tear her up. They were still taking pictures.

Murdoc started without her.

His fingers thrummed a heartbeat into the quiet, a low note she could feel in her stomach. He looked over expectantly. She tensed, trying to mimic him, and striking her chord off-beat in a sweaty hand. Her lips went dry. His grin didn't change. She fumbled into a rhythm.

Angel closed her eyes tight and pressed her lips so close to the mic that she could hear her own breath.

“_So this ain't the end, I saw you again today. I had to turn my heart away._”

She couldn't look at him. She couldn't look at anyone. Whenever she was on the stage, singing, playing, it was as if everyone was gone except her. She blocked out everything besides the music and slipped into a place of her own. But not this time. Not with him breathing down her neck. She felt a magnifying glass burning on her. She felt his cruel grin like it was against her skin.

“_Smile like the sun, kisses for everyone. And tales, it never fails._”

Her pick felt slick in her fingers, slipping over the cords.

“_You're lying so low in the weeds, I bet you're gonna ambush me._”

Her eyes snapped open, anger gripping her.

“_You'd have me down, down, down, down on my knees..._” She glanced over at him, hands like a vice on the neck of her guitar. She spoke directly to him, her eyes hard. “_Now wouldn't you, barracuda?_”

His grin was a slit from ear to ear, facing downwards towards his bass. She shut her eyes again, focusing on her fingers, on her breath. Anger boiled into a whip of nerves and tension. Angel forced herself to focus on sound and sound alone. The bass was her heartbeat, thumping hard, her guitar twisting over it in harmony.

“_Back over time, we were all trying for free. You met the porpoise and me._”

She felt the bass pounding in her ears.

“_No right, no wrong, selling a song. A name!_”

Without her noticing, her shoulders relaxed. It had been so long since she'd had someone play beside her. Someone this good. Rage became just pure energy, not good or bad. She felt the music all around her, thumping in her chest and swimming in her stomach. With her eyes closed, she forgot the fear of the one who was beside her, her anger, her trepidation. He became his sound alone.

“_Whisper game…_”

She felt his rhythm and matched it. Her voice became louder, and the shaking stopped. In a tremble, she felt warm again.

“_And if the real thing don't do the trick, you better make up something quick. You gonna burn, burn, burn, burn, burn to the wick. Ooh, barracuda!_”

She felt him beside her, warm against her arm. He hovered close to the mic, adding his grisly voice to hers in duet. Her stomach twisted up into her chest. He sounded… not bad. He was inches from her face, intimate. She felt hot.

“_Sell me, sell you, the porpoise said,_” they sang in one voice, “_Dive down deep now, to save my head._”

“_You,_” she cut off alone, breathless, “_I think that you've got the blues, too._”

He moved in beside her again, looking right at her. And she looked straight at him.

“_All that night and all the next, swam without looking back._”

“_Made for the Western pools._” Her voice was alone again, a pit growing in her core. A pit she recognized. A pit she felt like she was falling into. She wet her dry lips. “_Silly, silly fools._”

Murdoc backed up, his grin ever-present. Angel turned her eyes back to the mic, her face red hot and prickly. She fumbled for the chords again. Suddenly the air around her felt naked and she felt bare. Her head swam.

“_The real thing don't do the trick? No? You better make up something quick. You gonna burn, burn, burn, burn, burn it to the wick!_”

The bass stopped entirely and she was on her own. She felt a tingle run up her spine.

“_Oohh, bara-barracuda._”

His beat picked back up, and they were together again. She could feel sweat running down the small of her back, her skin hot and cold at the same time. Her guitar stung, her fingers numbed from the vibration. A heartbeat of chords, over and over, in tandem until suddenly… there was nothing. Silence. Her blurred eyes focused, her breath coming in dry gasps.

The clapping was a buzz in her ears. People had edged up to the stage, pressing themselves as close as they could get. In fact, they were pushing up on stage. And pushing her out of the way.

Angel took a step back as the audience made a circle around Murdoc, some asking for photos, a few women and a man offering phone numbers. His ego couldn't take it. He smiled and joked, soaking it all in. Angel froze, feeling her excitement drain away to sickening embarrassment, then anger. She unplugged her guitar, her life support, and slunk backstage. She took off the instrument, leaning it quickly up against the wall and dove into the bathroom, locking it behind her.

She leaned against the dirty brick, sliding down to the floor. Someone rattled the handle. She ignored it till it stopped. Angel buried her head in her knees. For a moment she had felt… almost close to Murdoc. But now, she felt utterly humiliated. He was using her to make a point. He was there to humiliate her. He must have found out, must have followed her. He was cruel, and nothing else. She felt the pit inside, still, and gripped her stomach until a few tears leaked out.

When Angel finally opened the door, Murdoc was alone with the manager, who was handing over a short stack of bills. He was trying to broker some deal with him.

“We could have you do a set another time? Throw you up on the ad?”

Murdoc barked a laugh.

“I don't sign an album for this little. But eh, maybe I'll get bored again. No promises.”

Her face flushed and she could feel herself getting hot with anger. She made a beeline for the guitar.

“Ah, there you are!” he called out to her, hurrying over. “Didn't fall in? Haha.”

He moved over to his case, slipping the bass inside.

“Imagine my surprise. I was concerned where you'd disappeared off to. And what do I find? You playing a little song at a seedy little bar for a cash prize. Oh, I had no idea what I was getting into.”

Angel's bottom lip went stiff. She pulled her jacket on, not looking at him.

“I had every intention to show up and show you up,” he laughed. “You ever heard my 'Ziggy Stardust'? Tear-jerking, really.”

He zipped up the case, turning to her.

“But what would you know? To my surprise, you're a little punk. No offense.”

She whipped the lid of her case open. Her voice shook with rage.

“So you came here to make fun of me? Well, you got your wish.” She stuffed the strap awkwardly into the case, slamming it shut. “That was, bar none, the most embarrassing thing I've ever had to do onstage, playing second-banana to some B-Rate rockstar.” She got right up close to him, shaking with anger. “And I'm including the time I performed in a bikini for tips.”

She turned, storming to the back door and shoving it open with a bang as it smashed against the wall.

“Oh, come on,” he called after her, pushing through the door behind her. “I'm not B-Rate.”

She was halfway down the alley, her heels catching in every hole in the pavement, splashing in puddles of muddy water. He hurried to catch up.

“Come on,” he pleaded again. “Don't be such a-”

She turned at that, her voice echoing between the buildings.

“A what?!”

Murdoc stopped. Her face was red and her arms shook so badly she had to put the case down to keep from dropping it. She tilted dangerously as her heel nearly gave out, stuck in a particularly deep crack.

“So, what? You follow me here, come in to belittle me, you steal fifty dollars from me, to teach me a lesson? About what, sticking my nose where you think it doesn't belong? You think I'm some-some _ hack _ in comparison to you? You don't even fucking know me!” Murdoc opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “You think I'm just a joke to laugh at because I'm a little poor girl and you're so _ above _me? Well I'll tell you-!”

Her ankle lurched in the crack and she went toppling to the ground, scraping her hands on the pavement and splashing mud all over herself.

He burst out in laughter, hovering over her and reaching for her arm. She slapped him away, her face red and burning with hot, angry tears.

“I don't want your help!” she screamed, limping backwards onto her ass. She gave up trying to stay dry and sat right in the puddle out of spite, pulling her shoes off swollen feet. “Just leave me alone! I quit!”

His laugh went quiet.

“I quit,” she said, quieter, tossing her heels away.

They stood in silence. Angel's shoulders shook as she tried to hold back tears. They leaked down her cheeks and her nose ran. She wiped it viciously on her sleeve, feeling the urge to break down and cry grip her. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

“Let's go get a drink.”

Angel's eyes snapped up to him. She snorted unpleasantly, wiping her nose again.

“What?”

“Let's go get a drink,” he repeated.

She looked over at her shoes, soaked in a pool of dirty water, then down to her clothes all soaked with grit and street slime. She shakily moved to grab the heels up, her palms stinging and bleeding.

“Why the hell would I go out for a drink with you...”

He leaned down and picked up her shoes, handing them over to her. She took them, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I think you probably need one. And I need one every minute of the day.”

Angel felt empty, run all out of gas. Her skin had burned out and went cold. She pulled the shoes back onto her red feet.

“...You're buying,” she muttered. “And that doesn't mean I'm not angry. I… I don’t want to walk back like this.”

He reached out his hand to her. Her mouth twisted into a sneer, and she grabbed it hard, pulling herself up. It was then that she realized she was a good three inches taller than him in heels, which gave her some satisfaction. She grabbed up the case, and brushed a minimal amount of dirt from her jacket.

“And you're giving me a ride home.”

He smirked.

“That's a lot of demands.” He turned back down the alley. “I know a place grimier than this. This one's too clean, giving me the creeps. Besides, where we're going they won't care that you look like you slept in the gutter. They probably did.”

Angel hesitated, rocking on her heels, and trailed behind with a slight limp.

You wouldn't have known that The Black Cat was a place open to the public from the outside. A tiny little sign hung crooked above the plain grey door, a jagged cat arched over hand-painted letters. But apparently it was the place to be. They were barely able to shove themselves into the bar and into a teeny booth. They had to stuff their cases up against the walls. Angel's right side was smashed against the hard case, and her left up against the rail of the booth. She shifted her feet out of her shoes, blisters welling up already.

Murdoc slunk his way over to the bar. He was right, most of the people there looked like they were half-gone and dirtier than her. It made her feel less horrible about being red-faced, snotty, soaked, and bloody. Everyone in here was at least one of those. She ran her stinging hands over her hair, trying to smooth it down, to no avail.

He slipped into the booth, two shots and two beers in his arms, pressed up against his chest. He set them down carefully, sliding one of each to her.

“I thought it was going to be one drink,” she said dryly.

“It is.”

He shook his shot glass over the beer. She pursed her lips.

“I haven't had a boilermaker since I turned twenty-one.”

“Then you're overdue.”

“Aren't you...” She intended to hold back, but she was still too angry to keep herself from saying, “A little old for that?”

“Ouch,” he deadpanned. “I'm not a day over forty-nine.”

She felt a shock go through her. She knew he was older, but she'd never really considered how much older he could be. It felt strange knowing he was more than twenty years her senior.

He shook the shot again. She sighed.

“If I do, will you stop being such an ass?”

“Oh, no, I'll probably be a bigger ass. But you won't mind as much.”

Angel licked her lips, snapping up the glass and hovering it over the beer. Murdoc's smile was as crooked as he was. His shot glass splashed into the beer and she dropped hers, tilting the glass up to her mouth and drinking as fast as she could. The bubbles stung her throat, and she could feel the urge to gasp for breath, but she kept going. The glass clattered back down to the table and she took a huge breath in, coughing on the foam lingering in the back of her throat. Her head swam from the oxygen bursting back into her.

Murdoc wiped the corners of his mouth, laughing.

“You certainly look like you haven't drank since you were twenty-one, period.”

She smeared her lips with the back of her hand, her lipstick running.

“I don't drink as much as I used to,” she admitted, coughing.

She instantly realized that was the wrong thing to say. He tapped the table excitedly.

“Let's get another.”

“Uh,” Angel started, moving to stop him, but he was already pushing through towards the bar again.

She rested her head in her hands, sighing. What the hell was she going to do now? She didn't want to go back on what she had said. She didn't want to look like an ass. Especially when she was right. But she just quit the only job she could get and lost her home in the same stroke. Angel's mouth twisted. She guessed she could scrape more money together, buy a guitar from a pawn, and just keep jumping from one cut-rate talent show to the next for tips until she figured something out.

He came back with two glasses of what looked like double whiskeys and two bottles of beer. She winced.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking the lip of his beer to hers.

She didn't pick up the bottle.

“What you did was shitty,” she blurted out.

He stopped, rolling his eyes and setting the beer down.

“What I was _ going _ to do was shitty. But I didn't _ do _that. Don't punish me for crimes I didn't follow through on.”

“You humiliated me.”

Murdoc narrowed his eyes.

“I don't know, you seemed pretty into it towards the end.” Her hands gripped into fists. “What exactly did I do to _ humiliate _ you?”

Angel felt tears bubble up in frustration. She blinked them away.

“You showed me up. You acted like you were there on accident. You followed me. You forced me onto that stage and you forced me to play with you. You made me stand up there while they took pictures of _ you _ and clapped for _ you _ . You saw me happy for ten seconds and you had to ruin it by making it about _ you! _”

She realized she'd raised her voice to a yell, and the bar grew a little quieter. She wiped her nose again, looking over at her glass.

Murdoc peeled the wet label from his bottle, not looking at her.

“That's…” His mouth twisted into a sneer, and his shoulders tensed. “That's not…”

He struggled, wrestling with what to say. He didn't think about it like that. For once he was offering her a genuine gesture and it came out fucked anyway.

“I wouldn't have done what I did if I didn't think you were worth the time,” he finally said.

Angel's eyes snapped up at him.

“You were making fun of me.”

“I maaaay have come there with the intention. But there wasn't much to ridicule. Except maybe your choice in footwear.”

She felt like she couldn't trust what he was saying, gripping her glass hard. He groaned, growing more and more agitated.

“What do you want me to say?!”

“I want you to apologize!”

He flinched, glancing over at people who were shooting him looks. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the cash, placing it on the table in front of her.

“I didn't mean to embarrass you,” he muttered.

Angel didn't reach for it.

“This feels like a trick.”

“No trick. For once,” he added. “Take it or don't.”

He raised the bottle to his lips, and in an almost inaudible voice he muttered, “Sorry.”

She felt anger leave her in a rush, her hot cheeks cooling suddenly. And she felt small. She took the bills, fiddling with them.

“...I did enjoy it. For a little bit,” she mumbled, looking at her hands. “You're...not bad.”

He snickered.

“I knew it! You fickle little-”

“Shut up,” she snapped, grabbing the whiskey and taking a long sip.

It burned all down her throat.

“What did you really do back home?” he asked.

She was caught off guard. It was almost like he was trying to have a normal conversation with her.

“I was a waitress,” she admitted. “And I played in a band. A couple. ‘ZingaBinga’ and ‘Killing Aphrodite’. A couple more. Not big hitters,” she muttered, taking another sip.

“The first seven never are.”

She snorted. He leaned over, counting on his fingers.

“The Hot Pits, Satan's Scrotum, The Burning Sensations. I could go on and on about the bands I got tangled up in. All shit. Except one. You do a lot of bollocks music till you manage to pin down the right people.”

“Yeah, never got around to that part,” she mumbled over the rim of her glass. "The last one… panned out very badly."

He slammed his glass down.

“You broke the golden rule! I can tell!” He leaned in. “Never get involved with a bandmate. I can tell you from lots of very personal experience. That's lesson one.”

“I thought lesson one was: there's more than one way to pick a fight.”

He thought for a minute, then coughed out a laugh.

“Lesson three is don't listen to a fucking thing I say.”

He finished off the beer, pushing it aside. Angel had drunk the rest of her whiskey out of nervousness and looked down at her own bottle.

“So, you going to go off to be a waitress by day, busker by night again?”

Angel wrapped her fingers around the glass.

“I guess,” she said in a small voice.

He leaned in, looking up at her from under his bangs.

“I'm a little… between people at the moment. You want a promotion?”

She fumbled over her words.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Don't get big ideas, nothing front page. I'm holding out for those bastards to come crawling back. But… well you know I have a deadline, and I'm working on something. You can play. Can you write?”

Angel's face flushed.

“Uh, I have, yeah.”

He held out his hand.

“Consider yourself re-hired.”

She hesitated, then reached out, her hand limp in his grip. She felt like she just made a deal with the devil.

“This means another celebration drink, haha.”

And he was at the bar for more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged: Sexual content, alcohol use

Angel snapped into consciousness, sat up straight and slammed her head off the roof of the car. She groaned, rubbing her skull, pounding in waves of throbbing pain. Her eyes adjusted to the light, squinting around. She was in the backseat of a car, crammed in with her guitar case.

She rubbed her face, looking down at herself. She wasn't wearing her shirt. She was wearing Murdoc's. She sat up again, smacking the top of her head.

She was in his car, she realized, laying in a pile of empty cigarette packs, clothes, cassettes, and magazines in the backseat. Murdoc's bass case was sitting in the driver's seat, and in the passenger seat was Murdoc, knocked out cold, bare-chested and wearing her jacket. His feet were kicked up onto the dashboard, his head resting against his chest. She would have thought he was dead if he wasn't snoring.

She focused through her pounding headache, trying to remember how she'd gotten there. She remembered getting to the car and Murdoc opening the door and insisting on driving. She had wrestled the keys off him and… Angel groaned. They fell down the storm drain.

The light stung her eyes. It must have been almost noon. She shifted, her whole body aching, and leaned over to open the door. A pile of CDs fell out onto the street. She buttoned the shirt up to her collarbone, covering her bra, and took a shaky step onto the pavement. No shoes. No shoes to be found anywhere. She tensed her lips. She had thrown them away at some point last night.

Angel got out of the car, gathering the discs onto the floor of the car, and swayed outside on shaking legs. She bent down, looking at her reflection in the side mirror. Her hair was a tangled mess. There was a purple mark swelling up on her left cheek, a huge bruise. Her makeup was entirely smeared off, except a trail of lipstick down her chin. She rubbed her wrist against her face, swearing. What the fuck happened? And why the fuck was she in his shirt?

They were parked on a side street, in an alleyway, she guessed a block or two down from the bar she'd played in last night. She ran her fingers through her hair trying to tame it into something vaguely acceptable and fished the fifty dollars out of her back pocket, sighing in relief.

There was a store on the corner, and she managed to fight back the urge to vomit long enough to buy a package of Aspirin and a pint of orange juice. The cashier looked down at her bare feet, but said nothing. Angel was grateful, and held in her puke until she got around the side of the building.

She hadn't thrown up in years, and she never felt her head pound like it did now. Every step rang her bell, and it took her ten minutes to walk back to the car. She popped the pills, forcing down a swallow of juice. She tried to clear her dulled mind, trying to remember what had happened last night.

They were at The Black Cat, taking shots. After the first few drinks, they were talking and talking. She couldn't remember what about. She was laughing and he was laughing, and then he was crying. She remembered patting his back and saying, “it'll be okay” and “they'll be back” and the like. Then they got into an argument. Then they were laughing again.

Murdoc had gone to the bathroom, and Angel got panicky when he'd been gone a long time. She remembered leaving the booth and pushing past people to get to the back. The Men's room was a single. She knocked on the door, calling Murdoc's name. Someone inside groaned and the door cracked open. He peeked out at her.

“Are you okay?” she slurred, leaning against the door.

“Just needed a minute,” he groaned.

She started laughing.

“You puked, didn't you?”

He wiped his mouth, sneering.

“No.”

“Yeah, you did. Maybe you're too old to party this hard,” she snorted.

The door flew open and she fell into the bathroom, nearly hitting her head against the wall. It was a tiny room, painted all black with graffiti all over the walls. The mirror was cracked in a spider web so your reflection was a funhouse of eyes and mouths. It smelled like smoke. She remembered that room clearly. There was barely room to spread your arms out without touching a wall. She started to laugh again, wobbling upright on her heels, bumping the door shut as she tried to gain her balance.

“I am _ not _ old,” he growled. “I'm... well-aged."

She pursed her lips, still giggling.

“Like a steak?”

“Like a wine,” he sneered.

“Like milk,” she spat back, snorting.

She couldn't remember who leaned in first, but suddenly his hands were up the back of her shirt and hers were in his hair. He groaned into her mouth, kissing her hard. She clung to him like he would disappear if she let go. She could feel his hot tongue inside her mouth again as she remembered. He pressed her up against the wall, and she felt him get hard against her leg. He dragged his tip of his tongue up the side of her neck, crushing her hips to him. Angel's legs crossed as she thought of it.

His moans were loud in her ear, and she fumbled to grab his belt, but couldn't get it undone. She didn't care how dirty the bathroom was, she didn't care that this man terrified her sober, all she could think of was Murdoc's body, his voice, the taste of his salty skin, his hands, and the heat rising in her. She felt safe in the most unsafe place with the most unsafe person imaginable. She felt his cross drag across her. She cursed her fingers for failing her. He broke away, getting down on his knees, his hands on her hips. Angel remembered him sliding her jeans down, and the way he looked at her, hungry and focused and licking his lips. He leaned in, pulling at the hem of her panties. She could feel his breath against her.

They forgot to lock the door, though. A man ripped it open and bellowed at them. Murdoc yelled back, slamming the door shut. Angel pulled her pants up in a hurry, and they pushed back into the bar. His hand gripped hers tight. Murdoc said something she couldn't quite hear. Something about taking her home to finish what he started.

She remembered that they couldn't find their guitars. And then she remembered finding them. Two guys were trying to make for the door with them. Angel couldn't remember if it was her or him who picked the fight, but she remembered pulling one of them off Murdoc, and punching the other. And she remembered being punched. His jacket got pulled off. Her shirt got ripped. They grabbed up the cases and ran. Angel kicked her shoes off to get away as the men chased them down the street. She remembered laughing. She remembered Murdoc taking off his shirt to give to her, and him putting on her jacket. And she remembered dropping the keys down the drain.

She buried her face in her hands. She'd gone completely off the rails. What the hell had she been thinking? Her face was red where it wasn't already purple. She couldn't believe she made out with him. She almost let him go down on her. She knew better than to get involved. Billy had taught her that. She groaned into her palms. How could she face him after that? How could she go back to work for him? How could she live with the embarrassment? But even with all that, she thought, peering through the gaps in her fingers, she didn't regret it.

She wrestled with herself, debating whether to bring it up or not. She didn't know if she wanted an answer. Maybe he would hate her, tell her he'd only come onto her because he was drunk, and that he didn't want her around anymore. Though she'd been trashed herself. She didn't know what to think.

Angel swayed upwards, leaning on the car. She could take the bus somewhere and leave before he woke up. And go where? All of her things were back at the flat. Her eyes slid over to him. One way or another she was going to have to face him, unless she wanted to live on the street, with no money. And no shoes.

He growled when she shook him, cracking one eye open to look at her. The red one. He had a bruise worse than her. He took a deep breath in through his nose.

“You look like shit,” he muttered in a hoarse voice.

“You don't look any better.”

He rubbed his eyes, sitting up.

“Augh, my fuckin' back...” He stumbled upwards, gripping the door frame. “Where the fuck are we?”

“We never left.”

He patted his pockets for the keys.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

He let out a long groan, grabbing a lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of the cup holder.

“Alright, alright...” He lit up the cig, rubbing his temple. “You're lucky I've got these loooong arms. Just… give me a minute.”

He took a long drag, resting his head on his hand. She looked over at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Uh, Murdoc?”

He grunted.

“How much… do you remember last night?”

He pinched his nose, wincing.

“I remember getting thrown out of the bar.”

“Mm, close.”

“You threw my keys down the drain.”

“Dropped. I didn't throw them.”

“Not much besides that.”

Angel's stomach flipped. She couldn't tell if she was relieved or mad that he couldn't remember. She didn't know what to say.

“That's about it,” she said quietly.

“You stole my shirt,” he muttered.

“You gave it to me,” she corrected.

“Hm, that doesn't sound like me.”

“You weren't really yourself last night.”

He looked over at her, quiet for a moment, then covered his eyes again.

“Hm,” he hummed.

Angel sat down in the backseat, a wave of nausea pulsing through her. Her skull felt like it was about to crack. Murdoc clapped his hands, taking a long drag before rolling up the sleeves of her jacket.

"Alright. Time to dig around in the muck."

He spent the better part of ten minutes ass-up in the gutter, slipping his arm down through the bent-up grate, reaching for the keys that laid juuuuust out of reach. Angel watched, in too much pain to be of much help at all. He alternated between laying against the wall, chiefing his cig as fast as he could, and grunting as he nearly popped his arm from his socket with effort, until the ring finally slipped around the tip of his finger.

She leaned back in the passenger seat, her knees drawn up to her chest with her bare feet perched up on the seat as they sped down the freeway, the wind whipping her hair around. But the wind felt good, she couldn't bear to roll the window up. Murdoc's shirt hung down around her bra, but she didn't care. All she could think about was the pounding of her head.

Murdoc, on the other hand, seemed clear as day. He'd lit up another cig, sunglasses pulled over his eyes, and his free hand hanging out the window. It was a nice day, and she would've been enjoying it if she didn't feel like she was being ripped into pieces. She peeked over at him.

"Doesn't your head hurt?"

He scoffed.

"Love, I've been hungover fifty percent of my life. My head always hurts. You just reach a point of not caring anymore."

She cradled her skull, pressing down on her temples.

"I haven't been this hungover since I was twenty-one."

"Well then you're due, right?"

She cupped her hands around her eyes, hiding from the light.

"Augh, this is horrible."

"Ease up, Ange', you'll feel alright after you sleep it off. You're just not a professional, like me. You'll get there."

"Oh I hope not."

She felt him nudge her shoulder, peering out between her fingers. He held out his glasses to her.

"Oh God, thank you," she groaned, slipping them on.

The world slipped by with Angel dipping in and out of consciousness, her brain scrambled and unfocused, then all of a sudden razor sharp at moments, where she was hyper-aware of Murdoc sitting beside her.

She stole a glance at him out from behind the shades. He'd peeled off her jacket and leaned back shirtless, his pendant falling along the line of his chest. She'd never took much notice of his tattoos before, but now she was extremely aware of them: the long anti-cross on his bicep, the octopus on his forearm, his "Helios" tramp stamp, or the little skull on his ankle she spotted as he drove. She'd never really cared before. Her stomach twisted; did that mean she cared now? She could feel his hands grasping at her back, how his hair felt between her fingers. She looked away, hiding herself in her knees.

They pulled up in front of the flat, and Angel gathered herself, stepping out onto the sidewalk carefully. She looked down at herself, then back at him. He shrugged.

"Unless you want to whip it off right now, hang onto it. It's not like I don't know where to find you." He leaned over, pointing at her. "That's my lucky shirt so you best keep it safe, or there'll be hell to pay."

"I'll make sure I mess it up," she groaned, slipping the glasses back into his hand.

"Cheeky," he snorted, leaning back. "See you tomorrow, love! Try to stay out of trouble 'till then. And ice up that bruise."

"Yours is worse!" she called as he pulled away.

He waved out the window.

Her stomach boiled, her chest clenching. She gripped her jacket.

"See you tomorrow," she said to herself, standing on the pavement in her bare feet, her cheeks still hot.

It rained again that night, a warm thunderhead rolling in on a purple sky as the evening blotted out a violently bright day. And Murdoc was thankful for it, finally slipping off his shades as evening fell. He'd spent the entire day drinking coffee and wandering around the house in his glossy silk robe with "Pink Ladies" embroidered along the back, mindlessly bouncing from one meaningless task to another as he recollected his head.

He had a tendency to lock onto a thought, and cling to it, obsessing over it, then bouncing to something else days later. But not this time. His looming deadline was firmly lodged in, unbudging. He needed to get moving. He needed to bring Angel into the fold and see what she could do. Maybe she could save his ass.

Curiosity brewed in him as he thought. He took a long drag on his cigarette, grabbing his mobile. He barely used his phone for much else besides calling and texting, and the idea of looking her up hadn’t occurred to him before. And he’d never even asked her last name. He remembered hearing it, something with a “J”, but couldn’t piece it together. So he just tried every combination he could think of, with no success. He slapped the phone down, drumming his fingers and ashing onto the table, looking out the window.

Murdoc picked it back up. Maybe she wasn’t using her nickname. Angela James, Angela Jones, Angela Jackson… Nothing, nothing, nothing. He grit his teeth. Then it struck him, and he searched “ZingaBinga”, quite possibly the dumbest band name he had heard in a long time, so it stuck with him. And there she was, with brown hair and about five years younger. An old, abandoned Instagram account with five posts and a handful of followers. He stared at the photo of her and a girl with short hair, sitting on amps with headphones on. She looked so different.

He found her handle in the description, and finally there she was: Angel Johnson. She’d amassed a few thousand followers, more fans than he had at her age. His mouth twisted in a strange pang of jealousy. He scrolled through her posts: snippets of demos, of her in dim rooms, playing a guitar, singing into low-quality microphones. Even with the shitty, crackling sound, his interest grew. He listened over and over, to every single one. She could work as a side gig until he could scrape together the rest of the group. He hadn’t had a project outside of Gorillaz since they started. Maybe it was time to stretch his legs a little.

He scrolled back to the top. She'd posted relatively frequently until two months ago. And then she suddenly stopped. He took another drag.

Lightning cracked in the blue night, tearing him away. He got up, lit a candle on the counter and watched the storm roll in.


	8. Chapter 8

Murdoc's lucky shirt.

She didn't want to know what exactly he meant by that. She didn't want to think about how many floors it'd been on. It was on her now.

It was difficult to reconcile the shift from how she'd felt the day before. She'd been so completely angered, disgusted, and repulsed by him. And now she was wearing his shirt, unbuttoned, laying and staring at the ceiling. And with every passing second it was harder to push away the thought of his hands on her hips as he got to his knees. Or the thought of his fingers running over his bass. Or the thoughts of his tattoos, or his car, or his laugh. It was drowning her. It was insufferable.

It was clear why he'd let it happen. He was probably used to groupies, fans, social climbers. Any opportunity to get a quick lay was surely acceptable to him. But why did she? Was she just jumping at the first ounce of interest shown to her? Her fingers fidgeted with the buttons. Maybe that was it. She just missed Billy in some sick, twisted way. He had black hair just like him, he was in a band just like him… And Billy hadn't always been evil, there were things she remembered fondly, however much she hated herself for it. That had to have been it. She clutched the silk tight. That reasoning didn't make her feel any better. Maybe she just missed being in a relationship. Maybe she just missed the sex. There had to be a reason Murdoc suddenly buried his way into her brain like a worm and refused to let go.

_ I should take this off. _

She laid still, unable to move. She'd spent most of the day on the floor, begging her hangover away, unable to think about anything until her pounding headache abated in the late hours of the evening. And she kept laying there, her mind overflowing when the pain finally let her think.

She'd tried to wall the thoughts up, desperately trying to think of anything else. But it was inevitable. She'd always come back to the tiny bathroom at the Black Cat.

Angel ran her hands over her face, her eyes slipping closed. No. Not again. She couldn't get tangled in that shit all over again. All worked up and blinded and obsessed so some overgrown brat could get his way. She couldn't walk into that one more time. This had to be stopped here and now. It had to be strictly business.

That was easier said than done.

Angel watched the greyness of the city pass on the Metro the next morning, her eyes unseeing. She tried her best to cover up her bruise, but she could feel her cheek swollen under her makeup. She had to get a grip on herself. If Murdoc didn't remember what happened, she needed to play it off, act like it never happened. She should have never gone that far, or let it get that far. It was too risky to get involved. He was bad news. After getting off the heels of a bad breakup, jumping to the next worst thing was the last thing she needed. She went over a thousand reasons in her mind why pressing it further was a horrible idea. And still, she found herself returning to the same thought over and over, and felt his hot breath on her cheeks.

Walking into the house was like walking into the doctor’s office. Butterflies swarm in her, and she had to force herself forward, every step deliberate and coaxed.

Angel peered into the living room, dropping the mail she’d grabbed onto the table. Lee Dorsey was playing full blast on the turntable–"Give It To Me". Murdoc was laying on the couch, a newspaper in his hands and his legs thrown over the back of the sofa with a huge grin on his face.

"Ange'! It's about time!"

Her heart dropped like a stone into her stomach the moment he looked at her. His mismatched eyes killed her on impact. She felt herself turn inside out, and the floor came up to meet her. Her legs locked.

_ Fuck _.

She forced herself to move across the room, gliding mindlessly past him to lay her coat over the chair.

_ It didn't mean anything. Not to you. Not to him. Get over it. Get over it. _

A half-empty bottle was sitting on the table. She turned it around.

"Are you… are you just drinking vermouth by itself?"

"It's what's in, nowadays, love. Really, you're not the most cosmopolitan girl. We can work on that."

"I'm not Julia Roberts. But thanks for the offer." She set the bottle down. "Don't you have a job for me?"

"Don't you remember? You've got a promotion! You're a new woman now!"

He tucked the end of his cigarette behind his ear.

"So I'm not doing errands anymore?"

"Ah, well… yes. But! The benefits are better!"

"I didn't have benefits before."

"Yes! Well, now you do!"

"And that would be…?"

"Oh! Well, you get to drink on the job now!"

Angel grabbed up the ashtray and shook it at him. He tossed his butt inside.

"You offered me a drink and a smoke the first two days I worked for you."

Murdoc struggled up, nearly falling off the couch with a grunt, pressing a hand to his back as it cracked on his way up.

"Ah, yes, well… Those were tests! And you passed!" He slipped around the corner and came back with a crystal rocks glass, rolling it in his palm. "Nooooow you get full access to the bar! And the studio upstairs! Oooh! AND you get to tell me what you really think! That's the best perk of all!"

He poured her a glass of vermouth, shoving it into her hand and gripping her in a side-hug, spilling some of the liquid over the side.

"Throw that underling, goody-two-shoes bullshit out the window. I want the real, raw, uncut Ange'. Got it?"

She wrinkled her nose at the nickname. She couldn't tell if she liked it or not.

"Oh, so you can remember my name?"

"Of course! What kind of moron would forget a name like yours?"

"So you were just making fun of me this whole time."

He shrugged.

"Needed to make sure you had a thick skin."

She took a tiny sip, silent for a moment. He was grinning from ear to ear.

"...I hate this," she said quietly, wincing.

"Me too.”

She set the glass down, Murdoc shuffling around behind her.

“Well! Let’s go out.”

Her mouth hung open.

“Aren’t… you forgetting about something?”

“Forgetting something?”

“You have an album to write? And… you’re supposed to be doing that? Isn’t that why I’m here?”

"Yes, well... experiences, love–" he said, pulling on his jacket,"–are the root of all inspiration." Angel trailed after him, pushing her feet back into her shoes. "Though my greatest strokes of genius generally do come from the result of isolation and far too much rum. But I've done quite enough of that over the last few years. Nearly lost my taste for the stuff."

He was already out the door, not bothering to look back to see if she was behind him.

Everything he did was another example of why she couldn’t trust him, couldn’t get too involved. Murdoc was too fast for her, too much too quickly, too volatile and too liquid. Every moment around him was like mercury, always moving, never contained, changing all the time. It made it hard to focus. Made her confused. And it gave her a heady rush like the arc of a roller coaster before dropping down the track with no hope of backing out. But he made her feel alive, if only to make her angry or frustrated.

She hurried along behind, trying to keep with his awkward pace, not quite walking, not quite running.

"Exactly what experiences are you looking for?"

"Does it matter?"

Angel blinked, balking.

"I can see why you needed more time. You're kind of wasting it right now. Shouldn't you be working?"

"I _ am _working," he insisted, slowing only to smile at two girls chatting outside a coffee shop, waving at them.

They waved back, one leaning into the other to whisper something.

"See? I'm networking," he said, approaching them.

"You're doing something," she groaned, leaning back, her hands in her pockets.

Her stomach flipped as she watched him slide off his sunglasses, giving them his best ear-to-ear grin he could. She looked down, forcing the sensation away. She had no reason to get antsy. He didn't belong to her, he could do what he wanted. And so could she. They had no connection. No ties. And she wasn't going to pretend otherwise. But still, she looked away, feigning interest at the cafe's menu.

By the time she'd read it over five times, he sauntered back, waving over his shoulder.

"What was I talking about?"

"About wasting time?"

"Ah, yes. Time spent with friends is time well spent."

"They your friends?" she snorted.

"You never know, might be!" he said, waggling his finger.

She rolled her eyes.

"For real, though, where are we going?"

"You've got no sense of adventure! We're going to change that."

He was chasing her in circles. She rubbed her temples, trying to ease the tide of anger rising up.

“Look, I’m just trying to do you a favor. You remember I’m not the one under a contract, right? I can jump at any time. You’re the one that needs this.”

Murdoc glanced back at her, rolling his eyes from behind his sunglasses. He dug around in his pocket.

"Here," he said suddenly, waving a notebook at her from over his shoulder. "This is what I'm working on. Take a good look, because this is going to be your life the next five months."

She took it, flicking through the pages quickly. It was filled.

“Some of these look almost done.”

“Almost being the operative word.”

“I don’t understand. We couldn’t have just gone to the studio and started working because…?”

"Look, I figured it wouldn't go well if I sat you down in the studio and stared at you in silence and told you to bang out a song. D'you think you'd be Little Miss Productive?"

He was right. Just imagining that made her feel awkward.

“Still,” she muttered, flipping through.

Tiny droplets of rain pattered on the sidewalk, the cool wind kicking up.

They ducked under an awning, the sky pouring sheets down into the streets. People rushed by, hurrying to escape the storm as it rolled in. Angel wrapped her jacket close to her. They'd walked a good forty minutes from the flat, marooned with no umbrella and no car. She was stuck with him.

"I guess we'll wait it out."

She looked behind her, catching the door shutting from the corner of her eye as he slipped inside.

"Hey!"

She hurried in behind him.

"What are you doing?"

"What? You think I'm going to just loiter outside? Who do you think I am? Some kind of hooligan? Besides, I could use a real drink.”

“Oh, so this was your plan from the start?”

“Who says I have a plan for anything? I just let fate’s hand toss me around. Life’s more fun like that.”

He was already working his charm on the hostess and before she knew it, she was sitting across a table from him. Déjà vu.

The bistro had their front windows open, letting in the brisk rush of wet air. Thunder crackled in the greyness, pops of lightning flashing in the distance.

Murdoc shed his jacket, leaning back in his chair to look out at the rain. He looked… handsome, in his own bizarre way. He was wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck, his gold pendant resting against his chest. Her eyes travelled over the curve of his bicep, to the tattoo that ran along his arm, down to his fingers that lazily drummed against the wine list resting in his hands. He was talking, but she wasn't listening.

With the thunder rolling in, the crispness of the air, and the hiss of rain against the pavement, she felt oddly pleasant. And for a moment, she let herself watch him closer than she'd ever let herself. He'd seemed transparent before, like an image and nothing more, until she'd touched him. Now when she looked at him, she couldn't just see him anymore. She felt his chest under her hands, she felt his hair sliding through her fingers, she felt the pressure of his lips and the warmth of his breath. She could feel him without touching. It was overwhelming.

She didn't realize she was staring until he was looking right at her.

"What do you want?"

"Huh?"

His eyebrows raised under his hair.

"Wine, love, what kind do you want?"

"Uh… I don't drink it much. It's… usually too expensive for me. I don't know much about it."

"Oh good God! You know I can't associate with you anymore, now, if you don't know your Medocs from your Muscadets. When the lady comes back I'm going to have to pretend I don't know you."

The lady was standing right beside him. He jumped, recovering instantly with a beaming grin.

"Hi." He used the menu as a shield between Angel and himself, leaning towards the server. "I trust you more than I trust her. Can you bring us whatever you like best?"

"We've just got a nice Chablis in?"

He looked over at Angel.

"They've just got a nice Chablis in. That sounds fantastic."

He handed the list back to the server, grinning like a cat. Angel leaned over as the server left.

"You don't know anything about wine either, do you?"

He stuck his pinky out.

"I like drinking out of the fancy glasses. Makes me feel like a vampire."

Angel choked on her laughter, covering her face.

Murdoc didn't seem to be bothered by anything. He didn't seem to ever have much of a plan, or care if he jumped from one thing to another. It pissed her off most of the time, when she had to desperately race behind to pick up the pieces. But here and now, she didn't mind it. She didn't mind that somehow she'd found herself stranded in the city with her boss, drinking wine and shooting the shit. For a moment, he was acting his age. For a moment, he was being decent.

This was nothing like the last time she'd sat across a table from him. Before, she was unbelievably tense, nervous, afraid, and intimidated. She'd felt small and cornered and analyzed. But now, she was frighteningly, alarmingly comfortable. He wasn't a concept anymore. He was a real person. And that thrilled and terrified her in a new way.

The woman returned with a cold bottle, opening it up tableside as Murdoc pointed at his glass, making her bubble up with laughter she tried desperately to hold in. The server pulled the cork, offering him a taste.

"Oh, well, my associate here was actually just telling me she's a bit of an expert! She was holding out on me." He grinned at her. "So she really should be the one to diagnose it."

So much for not being analyzed. He was turning the spotlight on her again, putting pressure on her to see what she would do. But she found in herself a confidence that had left her for a long time, and bearing the brunt of his teasing suddenly felt normal. She looked up at the server.

"Sure, why not?"

He watched her while she watched the glass, his eyes running along the length of her neck as she raised the glass to her lips.

"What do you think, love?"

"It's great."

He looked back up at the server.

"It's great," he repeated, then snapped back to Angel. "What year, do you think, love? Ah! Don't tell her, she likes to guess."

She feigned deep thought as the server filled their glasses.

"Hmm, a 2010?"

He leaned back, glancing up at the woman.

"Is it a 2010?"

"Mm, no."

He looked back at Angel, shaking his head.

"It's not."

"Okay, I'm going to stop him from torturing you anymore. Thank you for your recommendation, it's lovely."

He waggled his head at her, snickering as he went to drink.

"Lovely," he mocked.

"You're a handful," she muttered, trying to hide a smile.

"Oh! Ange', you have no idea."

This was the third time she was sharing a drink with him. The first time she was horribly afraid, the second time she was horribly angry, and this time… she couldn't define exactly how she felt. She felt good, even as the logical part of her screamed that she shouldn't be comfortable. It was like sitting down with a wolf in his den surrounded by bones. But she couldn't find the fear that had gripped her so hard. For the first time in a long time, she felt at ease, and she refused to let herself be rational.

"So," he said suddenly, resting his chin in his hands. "What do you think?"

She pulled the notebook from her pocket, laying it open and flicking through the pages.

"You want my opinion? I thought this was your show."

"It is, but what's genius without recognition?"

"Well, I did see one I liked."

She stopped at the page she'd read before, nudging it towards him.

"This one."

His nose wrinkled up.

"That one? It's not going anywhere. The one before it—"

"I like this one," she insisted, looking up at him from over the rim of her glass.

His puzzled face softened for just a second.

"Why?"

"It feels real. It feels honest, not like you're reaching. I think it could be a good acoustic piece."

"Hrrngg, acoustic isn't really our bag."

"Our bag?"

His hand tensed. She snorted.

"I know you're just waiting to get your band back. I know I'm a stand-in. It's alright. It's not like I thought it was just me and you."

Murdoc wouldn't look at her, staring out at the rain.

"I'll do it with or without them."

Angel watched him, feeling an odd wash of warmth flow through her. An actual, genuine smile pulled at the edge of her lips.

"It'll work out. You're stubborn."

He glanced back at her, his scowl easing away.

"Well, not if you load me up with angsty ballads."

"You're the one that wrote it," she laughed.

He leaned over, playing with the stem of his glass. He pulled the pen from the spiral of the book, turning it around to face him. He scratched out a bar under the words, drawing out notes.

"I worked out a little beat for it, but I didn't give it any thought. It's not finished, anyway."

He was looking down, but she was looking at him. Her eyes flicked over it.

"Can we play it when we get back?"

The look he gave her was something she couldn't place. He nodded slowly, setting the pen down. His bravado left him.

"Sure, love. Yeah."

Angel slid the book back, threading the pen between her fingers.

"It still needs a chorus."

He snapped back.

"Yeah, I didn't figure one out, that's why I left it. It's just scratch."

He was watching her chew on the end of his pen when the server came back asking if they wanted anything else.

"Oh, no, dear. We're doing just fine."

Angel rubbed her thumb against the stem of the glass, looking up at him.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Oh, love, you know I can't give away all my personal secrets, but I'll let you ask me anyway. No promises I'll answer."

"I've never seen you eat this whole time. Like, not once."

He stared at her for a moment, his smile falling for just a second. He snorted, tipping the glass up to his lips.

"That's not true. And also, that is not a question."

"Mm, I'm pretty sure. I've seen you drink, that's for sure. But you don't even have food in the house."

"Well, my assistant hasn't been making her runs to the shops. I'm telling you, it's impossible to get good help these days. I should fire her."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Again, you did not actually ask a question."

"You're dodgy."

"How about we talk about you for a minute, huh?"

She snorted, leaning on her hand.

"Alright."

"You never really told me why you're here."

Angel stopped, his face going blank.

"I did," she said, trying to recover. "I told you my Aunt died, and I needed a job if I wanted to stay here."

"Why not just go back to the States? Why go through the trouble?"

"There's nothing back there for me. It was just me and my Dad. And after he… passed, it wasn't exactly smooth sailing for me. I couldn't pay for school or the house, I jumped from gig to gig and watched all my friends move on." She raised the glass to her lips, looking out the window. "I didn't want to go back to a reminder."

Murdoc was quiet for a moment, tilting his glass dangerously.

"You said your last band didn't work out well."

"I… would rather not talk about that, if it's all the same to you."

He couldn’t keep from prying. It wasn’t in his nature to let sleeping dogs lie. He drummed his fingers on the table.

"I found some of your old songs. Not bad. Though the production quality certainly has room for improvement," he said with a smirk.

In a snap, the spell of contentment disappeared. Her spine went rigid.

"You looked me up?"

He scoffed, pouring more for each of them.

"Oh please, like you didn't do your own digging on me."

Her stomach twisted. He was right, but it felt different to be on the receiving end.

“I didn’t look you up until a few days ago.” She tried to defend herself. “Till then I honestly had no idea who you were. But you’re, like, a public figure. It’s different.”

“Is it?”

She drew into herself, swirling the wine around. She guessed it wasn’t. He leaned forward, trying to get her to look at him.

"I wanted to look at your work."

Angel couldn't look him in the eye. Every breath was agony. She wanted him to stop. She wanted to go back five minutes. She wanted the peace and the comfort and the sound of the rain. The wine turned acrid in her mouth.

"And?" she snapped.

"You just stopped posting all of a sudden."

She kept her eyes locked on the street, watching the water carry leaves down the gutter and into the storm drain.

“I was taking a break.”

He couldn’t let it go.

"No one takes a job with me unless they're desperate. I'm not an idiot. I know I'm an ass. There's no way you would've put up with me unless you had to. So, what happened?"

Her chest was tight, flashes of hot, overwhelming panic flooding her.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"You're running from something, aren't you?*

"I said I don't want to talk about it!"

She was overflowing with panic and embarrassment. The calm sensation was harshly gone, leaving her empty. Her breaths came in quick, strained bursts. It was too much. She needed to leave. She had to get out.

Angel got to her feet, pulling her jacket back on.

"I have to go. I'll see you later."

Murdoc didn't move to stop her, his grip tensing around the stem of the glass.

"You don't have a schedule anymore. Just come by when you've got something to show me."

She slowed, pulling her collar up around her neck as she dove into the rain, willing herself not to look back.

The rain poured down in waves, pattering hard against the awnings, cool air cutting in harsh through the window.

"Sir," the server said, suddenly appearing beside him. "Do you want me to close the window?"

He stared at the water pooling in the street, clutching his glass.

"No, it's fine, thank you."

His hand began to shake against the table.

_ Ruined it. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tagged warnings: violence

She went home and drank her last beer, her head in her hands. That went… badly. She couldn't look at the phone as it buzzed on the countertop. She was equal parts angry and embarrassed. It wasn't like he knew why things had gone bad, but that didn't make her feel like he'd been less of an ass for pushing.

It buzzed again.

She took a drink, resting her head against the cool surface of the table, rocking the stool on two legs as she watched the sun begin to coat the city in gold. She knew she’d overreacted, that she’d made a scene, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t told anyone why she really had to leave. No one except Fran, and that was only because she’d been fall-down drunk when Fran found her wandering around the city. No one had questioned it. They just let it go and moved on. And she couldn’t. And when Murdoc looked at her… She rubbed her face. It was just too much, she’d panicked.

It buzzed again. She sat straight up.

"Oh my god! Leave me alone!"

She snatched it up, the color instantly draining from her face. It was a string of missed messages from Fran.

She'd texted her a link, followed by frantic typing.

_ 'Look at this! What a motherfucker!' _

_ 'What the fuck?????' _

_ 'I don't understand, how is that legal? You never signed anything, did you??' _

_ 'Angel?' _

_ 'Did you see it??' _

_ 'Angel! You need to look at the link!' _

She shook, reading it over and over again. Whatever it was, it was bad. She tensed, and clicked the link. Her body went cold. It was the Spotify page for Billy’s band, her old band. And they had a new album. ‘Sacrifices: Acoustics & B-Sides’. She got to her feet, pacing.

“No.”

She scrolled through the tracklist, her heart shooting like a bullet into her shoes.

“No, no, no, no!”

They were all… hers. All the songs she’d written for him that had been unpublished. All the demo tracks, twenty of them, even unfinished ones. All her, under his name. She wasn’t even credited.

“This can’t… that’s not…”

Her breaths came in sharp bursts, tears pouring down her cheeks. She felt dizzy. She played the first song and dropped to the floor. Her voice echoed from the speakers. The phone slipped from her hand, her head pressed into the carpet, her body shaking. It was like he'd slapped her, open-handed and cruel, a ghost that became flesh and blood and had his hands around her neck. It choked her. He’d stolen another part of her life.

She curled in on herself and laid on the floor, sobbing until her throat went dry.

Neither of them knew what to say when Murdoc opened the door, Angel standing silently on his doorstep. He opened his mouth and Angel cut him off.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Can I come in?”

He stepped back and she went right in, making a beeline for the kitchen. She sat down at the island, resting her head on the countertop. Murdoc walked in silently, heading for the cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of wine, looked at Angel, then pulled out a bottle of scotch instead. He poured her a glass, nudging it towards her.

Angel glanced up, taking the glass in her hand. Murdoc pulled up a seat on the other side, fondling a glass of his own. He kicked up one boot on the counter, watching her with anticipation. She gave him a hard side-eye, suddenly feeling extremely awkward having shown up out of the blue.

“I don’t have anyone else to hang out with.”

He barked out a laugh.

“You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel if you’re kicking it with your boss.”

“I thought you weren’t my boss anymore.”

“Still like the ring of it. Queen’s still the Queen even if she does fuck-all. I like the title. Besides, I already ordered my business cards.”

Angel folded her arms.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I figure everyone is mad at me all the time for something, you’re not special.”

She held his stare for a long moment, then groaned, leaning her face in her hands. He pressed the rim of the glass against his chin.

“Well, if you were going to rate this thing we’re not going to talk about on a scale—”

“A nine.”

“Yikes.”

Angel took a sip, the liquid burning the whole way down.

“Can I stick around here for a little bit?” she asked in a small voice.

Murdoc cleared his throat.

“That’s extra, love. I'll have to dock your pay.” He smirked over the glass, tipping it to his lips. “Just don’t make a habit of hanging about. Cramps my style, you know?”

“Thanks.”

Curiosity crept into Murdoc’s mind and took hold. He looked her over, spinning the glass on the counter.

“This thing that we’re absolutely not going to talk about, is it… about you?”

“Yes and no.”

He was crawling in his seat.

“And this thing that shouldn’t be spoken of, at all, by anyone, is it old news or new news?”

“Both.”

Murdoc’s skin was prickling. His curiosity was piqued and he was like a dog set on a scent. Angel looked away.

“I’m not ready to talk about it. I’ll need to be drunker than this.”

He stared at her, drumming his fingers on the counter. Then suddenly he took another sip and clapped his hands together, startling her.

“Well, I’m heading out!”

“What?”

“I’ve got a party to go to. Well, _ we _ do.” He was already walking to the door, pulling his jacket on. “Tiny house, cramped, hot, with miserable people looking miserable who think they’re gods on Earth... Just the mood we need, Ange'. Like going to the zoo. I wasn’t going to go, but you look like shit. Ah, emotionally. No offense.”

“Offense taken,” she snapped, looking down at herself. Not impressive. She was wearing an old turtleneck stuffed into her beat jeans to make it fit and dirty white sneakers. She tried to smooth herself out. “I wasn’t planning to go anywhere.”

“Great! Life’s full of surprises. You’ll look what the girls call ‘effortlessly casual’. Like me.”

Angel shrugged her jacket back on, quick on his heels as he started down the stairs. There was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. And she didn't want to be alone.

"Besides," he muttered, lighting up a cigarette. "If you get loaded enough maybe you'll spill it and tell me what the fuck's goin' on, instead of giving me the run-around with Twenty Questions."

"Unlikely," she grunted.

"Night's young, and there's nothing to do at a house party but drink till you can stand everyone around you."

Her lips drew into a thin line; he wasn't wrong.

"Aren't we driving?" she asked, watching him go right by the Pontiac.

He waved her off without looking back.

"Your legs broken?"

_ Jackass. _

It was as unimpressive as she’d expected.

It felt just like any other party she went to as a hanger-oner. She ended up on the couch, alone, watching everyone else pair off. Angel rested the cup on her stomach, slipping out of herself. This was the last thing she needed. But there were free drinks, and at least that was something. It was better than crying only, she figured.

Murdoc slid up out of nowhere, poking his finger into her chest.

"Ange'! I've been looking for you."

She drew back, cradling her cup away from him.

"I'm not hard to find."

He tapped her forehead right in-between the eyes.

"Ahh, even with your poor hair color choice, vertical lift and all, you can blend in when you want to." He poked her nose. "You've been avoiding me."

"You looked...busy."

A wave of beer splashed out of her cup and splattered onto the floor as he wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her in close and clapping his hand to her collarbone.

"Oh, don't be so shy. It's unbecoming. These people, they're… well, they're not the worst I’ve ever met."

"That's not encouraging." She peeled his fingers off. "I only came to this because you asked me. I'm not the rubbing-elbows type."

"Yes, well rubbing elbows can be… beneficial in our circles."

"Your circles."

"Ooooour circles now, love."

"They're pretentious."

"Yes! And stuck up, and self-absorbed, and lacking a general sense of what a good time really is." He leaned in. "But, they really will fall for anything, love. And the best way to deal with a fool is to make them even more of a fool!"

"If you say so."

"I do! Aw, well Ange', we could always spend a little alone time, just you and me."

He waggled his eyebrows at her. Angel felt her stomach jerk. Flashes of the Black Cat's bathroom invaded her, his lips hard against her and her fingers in his hair. The room felt cold. The idea of getting another chance rattled her. She crumpled her nose, trying to stay even-headed.

"How many drinks have you had?"

"Not enough, and more than you'd think."

He perked up, looking to the door. He patted her shoulder, getting to his feet.

“I’ll be right back.”

Before she could say anything, he disappeared into the crowded hall, leaving her alone on the couch, still reeling from his half-hearted offer. Her leg bounced, hands tensing up impatiently.

A pale, tall man in a white tee shirt sauntered up, flashing her a grin. She glanced up at him, nodding casually. It wasn’t an invitation, but he stepped closer.

"Haven't seen you around before, it's about time there's some new blood in the city. I’m Eli."

Angel felt her blood pressure spike already.

"Angela."

He extended his hand. She took it, withdrawing quickly. His hand was wet.

"What do you do?"

This was tedious. It reminded her of when Billy had first started bringing her around to these sorts of things, showing her off like a prize pony, and she had leapt at the chance to make a good impression. It bored her now. She looked around, watching for Murdoc to return.

"Music," she said off-handedly.

He laughed, pointing at her.

"You're sassy, I like that. You going to make me guess?"

"If you want."

He pursed his lips, smiling.

"Hmm, most pretty girls are singers, or guitar, so people can look at ‘em up front."

"Got me pinned," she said, not looking at him.

"Haha, you part of a group, or you like being solo?"

"Whichever, when it suits me," she said, looking him in the face.

"Acoustic, right?"

She blinked, swirling her beer around.

"Metal."

It was half-true. She wasn't in the scene anymore, that was Billy's group, but it felt more truthful than anything else.

"Oh, tough girl huh? Should've guessed, usually the big girls go to heavy music eventually. Easier to break in without that Instagram-perfect image going on, you know? How tall are you, anyway, like 6 feet?"

Her jaw clenched.

"Not sure, you got a ruler?"

"Hah, I could size you up, yeah."

She took a sip, not looking him in the eye. This was exhausting. She didn't know who Murdoc knew here, and she wanted to at least try to tread carefully, but her nerves were quickly wearing thin.

"So what are you, SoundCloud LoFi mumble rapper?" she muttered.

He paused, then chuckled.

"You're prickly." He nodded to the door. "You want to go get a drink someplace else?"

Murdoc appeared behind him like a ghost, his lip curled up in a sneer.

"Watch it. You're dipping your dick where it doesn't belong."

"Oh, sorry old man, didn't mean to step on your toes. This your sugar baby?"

He sat down beside Angel, his arms thrown across the back of the couch.

"Partner, actually."

Her eyes snapped over to him, her stomach lurching.

"Business partner," he clarified, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

"Oh, you've actually found some work, yeah? Thought you were all out of ideas. When's the last time an album came out? Five, six years? Didn't know you were still relevant enough to come out to things like this anymore."

Murdoc's fingers clenched around his bottle, the paper label crumpling up. Angel looked back up at Eli, sensing the tension rising.

"Listen, we're trying to have a conversation, so can you just leave us be?"

The man pointed at her, smiling.

"Your bird's got more sense than you. Maybe this one'll stick around. The rest beat it, didn't they? The uh… tall one, the fat one, and the bitchy one, haha. That one still single? She was too hot to be hanging around a bunch of old men. Or was she your real sugar baby? Bet she was wild, she looks it," he laughed, tipping his cup to his lips.

Murdoc moved faster than Angel could process, reaching up to smack Eli's elbow, spilling beer all over him. He coughed, stumbling back. Murdoc leaned into the couch. He passed his bottle quietly to Angel, his voice even and serious.

"You talk about Noodle one more time like that, I'll break your goddamn nose."

The room was deathly silent. He threw the cup aside, grabbing Murdoc by the collar of his jacket and dragging him up to eye-level. He didn't resist. Murdoc’s face didn’t change at all, splattered with beer.

"I'm going to knock your fucking teeth in."

"How're you gonna do that when you're not even quick enough for an old man? Slack-jawed, limp-dicked nobody."

Eli's jaw was hanging. Murdoc laughed. And that did it.

He grabbed Murdoc by the back of his jacket, dragging him out the front door. Angel scrambled up after them, frantic and shoving past the crowd collecting around them.

"Stop it!" she called out. “Both of you, stop!”

Eli threw him onto the sidewalk, Murdoc rolling into the gutter as he struggled to gain his balance. A boot struck him in the gut. His ears rung, his lungs seized. Murdoc felt as if he was going to vomit, his vision bursting white.

He struggled for breath, cradling himself as he staggered back, coughing out a laugh.

"Oh, come on big man… you can do better than… a little football kick."

He swayed on shaky legs, leaning hard to the right, unable to stand straight. Eli came right up and grabbed him up by the collar, forcing him back. Murdoc clamped one hand down on his wrist, and the other struck Eli right in the nose, cracking it. He stumbled back, crying out as his hand flew to his face, already covered in blood. Murdoc shook his hand, laughing.

"Told you I'd break your fuckin’ nose."

But Eli was much bigger than him, and when he grabbed him by the front of the shirt, Murdoc fell to the pavement like dead weight. He struggled, trying to pry the man’s hand off. Murdoc's head snapped back as Eli’s fist slammed into his face, his skull hitting the pavement. The world went black, his vision pulsing in and out, his grip going slack. Eli wound up to hit him again.

Angel lept on him, grabbing his arm.

"Get off!"

He whipped around and struck her across the face. The sound echoed, a loud, sick _ SNAP _ that shocked her into silence. She stumbled back, clapping her palm to her cheek.

Murdoc struggled to get up, spitting out blood from his busted lip. The world left ghosting trails of itself as he lifted his head, everything flipping upside down. He fought back the urge to puke. His hand slid down to his boot, fumbling to find the metal clip.

"You leave her be!"

Eli turned back to him, his arm swinging back.

Then he stopped. Angel had him around the wrist, the red outline of his hand stamped across her cheek, a long scratch from his ring had cut from her jaw to her lip.

Her voice wasn't her own. She clamped down on his fist, twisting it until his wrist was about to break.

"You like kicking people around?" He cried out, grabbing her hand, trying to wriggle out of her grasp. "Try kicking me around."

“Fucking big bitch!"

He grabbed her by the hair, pulling hard. She grabbed his hand, doubling over. Her leg threaded through his and she hooked around his knee, pulling back as hard as she could. He fell like a stone, letting go to brace himself. She drove her elbow into his stomach on the way down. Eli crumpled into a heap, moaning. She untangled herself, scrambling backwards.

It was quiet besides his moaning, everyone afraid to move to interrupt. She turned back to Murdoc, her face blank. He leaned back on his hands, waves of nausea pulsing through him.

"Looks like… you've done… that before."

Her mouth opened and the ground came up to meet her. Her hands flew out to protect her face, palms ripping open against the pavement. Eli shoved her to the sidewalk, climbing on top of her, his hands closed tight around her wrists. She fought his grip, panic flooding her. His face was so familiar, so fucking hateful, so red and full of satisfaction.

Murdoc pulled his knife from his boot, staggering up, blood running down his face. But he was too slow and too dazed.

Angel wrapped her legs around Eli’s middle, squeezing as hard as she could until her thighs felt like they would burst. She’d break his ribs if she had to. He reached down to free himself, struggling for breath. With one surge of energy she threw her weight to the side, knocking him off her.

He rolled onto his hands, coughing. She reached down and grabbed him by the collar and twisted the shirt in her fist until he was choking, his hands reaching to grasp at her. Her knee pressed down on his back, keeping him pinned. She held tighter. The fabric bit into her skin, his nails tearing at her fingers, but she barely felt any of it. Tiny gasps burst from him, his face going red. She wasn't even there, silent as he struggled.

"Ange'!"

She snapped back to her body, sweating cold sheets.

Angel let go. Eli crawled to his knees, gulping air and clutching his neck. She panted, looking down at her hand, covered with scratches, shaking. Her palms were bleeding, skinned from the pavement, Eli's white shirt stained with bloody handprints.

Murdoc wiped his lip, blood dribbling down his face. He patted her chest, pushing her back from the man crumpled on the pavement.

"Any more and you'll be in the real shit, take it from me," he said in a low voice.

"I…" She took a step back. "I didn't mean to…"

"Ah, he got what was comin' to 'im. No one’s knocked him around for a long time, but everyone’s wanted to. He’s a little shit," he encouraged, turning her around. “But! I don’t think we should stick around for the after-party. Thank you everyone, it’s been lovely!”

She stared down at him. The look on his face made her sick, beet red with hate in his eyes, stone-cold black pupils. Just like Billy.

The woman at the counter of the late-night diner looked from one of them to the other. Angel’s face was puffy and red and cut from lip to ear, still bruised from the incident at the Black Cat, and Murdoc’s face had finally stopped bleeding, but his shirt was puddled with red. He flashed her a smile, blood between his teeth. She was quiet a long moment.

“Coffee?” she suggested.

“Please,” he said in a drawl, his lip swollen. “To-go. Seven sugars, no cream.”

She nodded hesitantly, then looked over at Angel.

“How about you, you… need something?”

“Coffee too, please, with… significantly less sugar. And cream.”

The woman held her stare, then disappeared into the kitchen. Angel rubbed her cheek.

“She’s going to call the police, isn’t she?”

“Fifty-fifty chance.” He leaned on the counter, head hanging. “Just tell me if you see them coming, I’ll need a head start. I might be old but I can still take a punch!”

He looked up at the woman, who held the coffees tight in her hands. He grinned.

“Ange’, would you be so kind as to reach into my pocket and get my wallet? I can’t see straight.”

She groaned, fishing his clip out of his jeans and handing over his card. He looked over at her.

“The back of my mouth tastes like a lead pipe.”

“Okay,” Angel sighed, taking the coffees off the counter. “Thank you.”

They limped over to a bench across the street, both of them grunting as they collapsed down. Murdoc’s head was swimming, his eyes having trouble focusing. Angel’s whole body ached, her throat still throbbing and her palms burning. She blew into the cup, taking a sip. Her face crumpled up. Murdoc’s. It tasted like syrup. She switched the coffees, smacking her lips.

He managed to get his carton of cigarettes out of his jacket, popping it open to pluck the last one out and light it up. He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Didn’t mean to get you into a fist-fight this soon. Usually takes longer than this, ha ha.”

“Technically you already did.”

He laughed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“That is true. I'm flattered, you defending my honor like that. My knight in shining armor, ha-ha."

A full silence weighed between them. He cleared his throat.

“I just couldn't put up with that fucker carrying on like that." He turned away, rubbing his hands together. "Make fun of 'D or Russ all you want, I couldn't care less. But Noods... That's a line you don't cross without getting some shit knocked outta you. She's… like… my daughter."

Angel sat up straight, unable to hide her shock.

"Not… not like… _ mine _," he said quickly. "I fixed that a loooooong time ago, dearie. I've been proudly shooting blanks since 2001."

He flicked ash from his cigarette, looking down.

"But she might as well be mine, you know…"

"I don't blame you," she said in a hoarse voice. "He was acting like an ass."

He chuckled.

"Well, little did I know I've got a little Uzi with me."

She shrank.

"I don't… I don't know what that was. I just lost it, I couldn’t stop myself.” She couldn’t make herself look at him. “I didn’t want to stop.”

He stared at her, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. A cool breeze cut the warmth of the night air. It smelled like rain.

"You want to talk about the thing you don't want to talk about?" he said suddenly.

She slid back, closing her eyes.

"Not right now. I've had enough for tonight. I don’t want to think about it"

"Hmph," he grunted, bringing the cup to his lips. “You still mad at me?”

She snorted, thumbs stroking the sides of her cup.

“Furious.”

“I better watch what I say around you, you might give me a fat lip next time I piss you off.”

“Maybe,” she snorted. “So be careful.”

He got up, stumbling and laughing. Angel steadied him.

"Let's go, you little psycho. I think I need to ice my beautiful face."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged warnings: 18+, explicit consensual sex, oral, light mentions of abuse PTSD but no explicit abuse.
> 
> The song Murdoc is listening to on his turntable is 'I Wanna Be Adored' by King Woman.

It took them twice as long to walk back as it did to get there, but Murdoc didn't seem to notice or care. His swelling face and split lip didn't keep him from running his mouth. He babbled the whole way back, acted out previous fights he’d been in, jumped up on a wall and promptly fell off, desperately tried to encourage Angel to stop into a pub with him as she desperately pulled him away, got them lost down a backstreet, and then started off on another rambling story.

She felt like she should have been irritated by his antics, but for some reason, tonight it didn't bother her. He asked her a thousand personal questions that should have pissed her off, but she couldn’t bring herself to be. She forgot about Billy, forgot about being alone, forgot about her tenuous place in the world and about her skinned palms and her throbbing face. All she could focus on was Murdoc bouncing from one insane story to another, like a fucking court jester trying to get her to laugh. And it was working.

He struggled to walk backwards without tripping on himself.

"How many fights've you been in, love?"

"Enough."

"I'd like to see who'd come out on top between the two of us." He put up his fists, feigning a jab. "You might be tall, but I'm squirrely."

"Ha! You got knocked on your ass pretty quick tonight."

"I am inebriated! It gave him the advantage."

"Aren't you always inebriated?"

"That… is not the point."

"I'm bigger than you."

"So is everyone else, so what?"

She snorted, giving him a gentle push. He teetered on loose legs.

"I'd prefer not to break your nose."

"Join the club," he said, tapping the bridge of his bashed-in nose. "It's prime real estate. He made a mistake going for the jaw when there's a target right in the middle of my face. Moron."

"Are you sure you're okay? You got your head cracked pretty hard."

"Oh you think _ that's _ bad? Takes more than that to bust this skull open. I should know. It's happened twice." He smiled, knocking on the side of his head. "I'll just have a splitting headache for three days. Nothing unusual."

The glint of something on his boot made her look down, the clip of his knife tucked inside the leather.

"Murdoc," she said slowly. "Were you… going to use that?"

He glanced down.

"Hey, only if I had to! You looked like you were in a pinch and nobody needs their little finger all that much."

"In the future, please don't cut anyone's pinky finger off. I'll be fine."

"Augh, you're no fun."

He burst in through the door and fell straight back into the couch, letting out a loud groan and throwing his arm over his face.

“Well, congratulations. I’m promoting you again, to bodyguard.”

"Lucky me."

She hovered over him, her cheek beginning to ache.

“You want some ice?”

"I don't have any trays. Or a dispenser. This is an ice-free household. I guess you could pour some into a bowl and wait."

"Who the hell are you…"

He waved her off.

“I think I’m gonna pass out, anyway. That’ll clear everything right up.”

She peeled her jacket off, wiping her hands together.

"I'm gonna go look at the damage."

"Nothing permanent, love. I've still got all the important parts." He craned his neck up as she turned to the stairs. "Oh, you meant you."

One long cut across her face, from her ear nearly to her lip. She stared into the mirror, her fingers running along the puffy red line. It itched. Someone's blood was splattered on her shirt, whether it was hers, Eli's, or Murdoc's was anyone's guess. It looked like the aftermath of a school fight. She rinsed out the cut on her, running wet fingers through the front of her hair. Thinned streaks of blood trickled down her face. Cinders were dug into her raw palms that she picked out one at a time, running her hands under the cold water until they stung. She stared down at them, her jaw tight. Long scratches marked her fingers where he'd clawed at her, trying to get free from her chokehold.

Angel shut the water off and backed up to sit on the edge of the tub, her head hanging in her hands. She'd pushed it too far. If Murdoc hadn't stopped her… She could still feel the ghost of his nails raking her, desperate for air. Even if he deserved to get it as good as he gave, that wasn't what she wanted. She just wanted him to leave them alone.

There was no way in hell she'd have believed what shit she'd gotten into if she could tell herself a month ago. Last week she would have thought Murdoc deserved a little knockaround, just to rough up his ego a little. And now she went to the mat for him. She put herself in danger to keep him from getting hurt. Well, more hurt. Even though he got himself into it. She just didn't want to watch his brains get splattered all over the sidewalk. She tapped the sides of her shoes together, letting out a long sigh that burned her lungs. So much for being a boring assistant.

He was still laid out flat on the couch when she came back downstairs.

"What, did you take a bath up there?" he snorted.

She clapped her hands together, wincing at the sting.

"Alright, you next. Sit up."

Murdoc scoffed, leaning up on his elbows.

"I'm fiiiine, don't be such a mother."

She was already turning his head down, running her fingers through his hair looking for blood. He was stone-still.

"Well, I don't know how, but your skull is in one piece. You're not even bleeding."

He clicked his tongue.

"It's that Niccals good luck. Can't you tell?"

"You're definitely a good luck charm if I ever saw one."

Angel smoothed his hair down, leaning over to look at his face. The reality of touching him came crashing into her when he looked right back at her.

"Must be your thick skull," she managed, giving his head a little shove.

Her footsteps moved to the kitchen as he stared straight ahead, his skull buzzing from where her hands had been. The sink turned on, water splashing into a glass.

"Well, it's not exactly my first time being knocked around," he called. "Clearly isn't yours, either."

Her stomach wrenched, water caught in a lump in her throat. She forced it down, wiping her mouth.

"No, it's not."

The fridge cracked open behind her, Murdoc leaning heavily on the door.

"There's no food," she muttered.

He cradled a can of beer, pressing the cold surface to his jaw.

"Peroni?"

"Oh God, please."

The cool metal stung her cut, numbing her cheek as she leaned into it.

"So am I going to get a fat lip every time I go out with you?"

"I guess you'll have to take me out again to find out."

"Your chances of that slip further away with every fight you get me in."

"You're still here," he snorted.

They stared at each other across the kitchen island, cans against their faces. Murdoc cracked his open.

"Murdoc?"

"Mm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Finally!" he burst out. "Yes, I _ am _ single, but you're a Gemini too. It would never work. Too many conflicting traits. Speaking of which, our birthdays are coming up. Santé." He raised his can to her and tipped it back.

"I'm... shocked you know that."

"I took your license when you weren't looking a week ago. You looked good with brown hair. Blue's out, didn't you hear? You should try Blonde. Or black. Black's a dignified color."

There was absolutely nothing dignified about Murdoc as he nursed a budding black eye with a beer can and had to prop himself up with the table to keep his legs from going out under him.

"Thanks for the fashion tip. Also, stay out of my wallet. But no, that's not it."

Her hip rested against the island, her thumbnail flicking the pop tab of the can.

"Why did you hire me?"

The question shut him up. He stared at her, drumming his fingers along his drink, swallowing the beer loudly.

"You were the only one who showed up. Well, uh, that's not true. A girl did come by months ago, but she walked out fifteen minutes after she met me. So… that doesn't really count I guess."

"No, I mean why were you looking for an assistant at all? You never seemed to know what to do with me."

"I did need one, but you were so easy to rile up, I never thought you could hack it. Thought I could scare you off day one, but you kept coming back. So it turned more into seeing what would make you quit. It was fun to torture you."

"Torturing me by paying me six hundred and sixty-six pounds right away?"

The can popped in his hand, denting around his thumb. He looked away.

"Ah, I've got the cash to throw it away on a joke."

She wasn't going to let him weasel out of the question.

"You wanted me to keep coming back, or you wouldn't have paid me. And you certainly wouldn't have given me the flat. You never made me pay rent. You never really gave me real work. You never had meetings, never had an appointment other than getting me to lie about my legal profession. Which I don't think counts as assistant work. So why?"

It was so quiet that the droning hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the universe. He wasn't looking at her anymore. Something bristled in him, she could feel it across the room. Something that frightened him.

"I had a… a little bit of a break a bit before you turned up. Went a little further off the edge than I'd have liked. I felt like I needed someone to jabber at other than myself if I wanted to stay sane. Well, sane as I can be."

His eyes were far away, a thousand-yard stare that chilled her. Angel blinked, the can drifting away from her cheek.

"Murdoc? Are you telling me you were trying to hire a friend?"

He snapped back to attention, snorting.

"No. I just… ran out of people to torture." She could see his whole body go rigid as he spoke. "No one returns my calls. Everyone splits sooner or later. Even you will at some point. I'll lie or not show up or push you too far, and you'll book it."

Her hand tightened.

"I'm very persistent."

His eyes were trained on her, hard and focused.

"I recognized you, you know. When you showed up."

For a second, she couldn't understand what he meant, but the small, malicious smile on his face made the color drain from her face. Every nerve in her body lit up with crackling energy, every muscle locking up.

"What?" her voice squeaked.

He waggled his finger at her.

"When you turned up at my door looking like you were wearing your mom's clothes, I knew who you were. That crybaby from the closet."

"You've got to be kidding." She struggled to keep her composure. "You were drunk."

He tapped his finger to his temple.

"It's a big advantage when people assume you can't remember anything just because you're three sheets to the wind. I wasn't a hundred percent sure till I saw you in the same clothes again that you were wearing that night. Not a big wardrobe, you."

Mortified wasn't a strong enough word to encapsulate how deeply shaken Angel was. She set the can down, cracking it open.

"I thought there was no way you'd last more than a day. What a surprise. Who knew you'd have the nerve to give me a talking-to." He grinned against the lip of the can. "So there's your answer. I guess I hired you because I felt bad for you."

A rush of anger prickled up her spine. She took a drink, wiping her mouth with her thumb.

"I recognized you too. Instantly. The drunk asshole jumping on tables."

He snorted a laugh.

"Would you have noticed me if I wasn't making an ass out of myself?"

"Of course!" she snapped.

He rested his chin in his hand.

"Why?"

She'd talked herself into a corner. She gripped the can hard.

"You're… well, you look…"

"I look like what?" he pressed.

"You're unique-looking."

His nail pulled at the lid under his pink eye.

"You think so? Unique's a soft word for ugly."

"That's not what I meant! I think you're…"

She stopped herself a few words too late.

"You think I'm what?"

"You're… not… bad-looking."

"High praise."

She bristled, tensing.

"You're teasing me again."

"It's so easy it's almost not fun. Don't cry on me, now."

It made her angry even as she tried her best to let his words slide off.

"Do you get off pushing people around?"

"I'm evil, love. Maybe you forgot that. If I was nice all the time, it'd ruin my image. Need to remind you every once in a while to keep you from getting too comfortable," he said with a wink.

She scoffed.

"You're not evil."

He leaned into his hand, teetering his can on its edge with his finger.

"Oh, love, maybe you do need a reminder."

Her temper rose, gripping at her chest so tightly she felt she would pop.

"I've met real, actual evil men. You're not it. Not by a long shot. You like to play around at it, and you're an ass, sure. I might not know you that well, but I don't think there's anything you could do to me that's worse than what I've already seen."

The can slipped, splattering beer across the table, and went rolling off into the floor with a clank.

Angel jumped up, kneeling down to grab it. She reached up for a dish towel, wiping off the tile floor. Red rushed to her face.

"You did that on purpose to see if I'd clean it up, didn't you?"

"No," he said in a small voice. "It slipped. That would've been funny, though."

She looked up at him, her hair falling into her face.

"Maybe you're getting too old to drink."

That snapped something in both of their minds as they looked at each other.

"At least I didn't puke this time," he said.

Neither of them dared to move, the both of them bloody and beat and ghost white while they waited for the other to do something. Angel could feel her heartbeat in her ears, deafening and suffocating. Beer soaked through the knees of her jeans. She wet her cracked lips, unable to stand or turn away.

"You said you didn't remember."

He looked down at her, liquid pouring off the edge of the table under his hand, pitter-pattering onto the floor.

"You didn't seem to want me to remember."

Her heart throbbed in her throat, her whole body flashing in hot, pulsing waves. The urge to run was overwhelming, but she couldn't move.

"Why didn't you say something..."

"I thought it might make it easier on you to pretend it didn't happen. Figured you'd regret it when we sobered up. Wanted to save you the embarrassment."

"I'm embarrassed right now."

His hand tensed against the table, his knees locked up.

"A drunk old bassist coming onto a drunk younger woman in a bathroom? That's not a good look. I didn't want you to get scared off. Well, at least not like that. I was too blasted to think about what that would seem like later."

The dish towel wrung up in her fists.

"That's not what I meant. I didn't feel like you were pushing me into anything. I wanted to..." She got quiet.

He knelt down, grunting as his knee snapped against the hard floor. His voice was serious.

"You don't have to lie to me, I've got a rock-hard ego."

She got louder than she meant to, her temper flaring.

"I'm not lying! I was the one who kissed you! I don't regret it. I did what I wanted to, at the time," she added.

It was too much to look at him. Her eyes drifted down to the floor, watching the beer slip through the lines of the tile. Her voice was small.

"I didn't want to know if you regretted it."

His fingers wrapped around her jaw, tilting her face up to him.

"I remember everything about that filthy little room. I remember how hard you were grabbing me." He was close, moving in as he spoke. "I remember you couldn't get my belt off." She felt the rumble of his laugh. "Clumsy one, you."

Angel was trembling, her eyes flicking from his black one to his pink one, unable to form words. He was so close.

"I don't remember regretting a minute of it. In fact, I think I offered to take you back and finish what I started. But_ someone _ slapped my keys outta my hands."

"You dropped them," she mumbled.

His stubble grazed against the cut on her cheek as he whispered into her ear, his breath running hot over her skin with each word.

"I could make good on my offer. I might not be in top-condition, but I can certainly manage."

His nails dragged so softly over the back of her neck that it was almost painful, pulling her hair aside. His lips hovered over her skin, a shadow of a touch.

"Listen, you say 'no', we can forget this ever happened. I'll go back to torturing you and you can go back to scolding me. No hard feelings. You don't say anything, well, that's a 'no' too, I'm not an idiot. If you say 'yes'... I hope you understand by now that I'm not boyfriend material. So don't take it personally later."

Angel's hand found its way onto his leg, her fingers sliding up his thigh to feel along the edge of his shirt.

"As much as I'd love to dive right in, I need a hard yes or no."

Every word brushed her neck with the barely-there touch of his mouth, hovering just out of reach.

There wasn't one rational brain cell in her that wasn't screaming for her to get up and walk out. Every logical argument she'd made when the thought of him crept into her mind rushed through her brain.

_ Not a good idea. He's your boss, he's cruel, he's a player, he's older, he's a liar, he's a drinker, he's going to get you in trouble. Don't get involved with a bandmate again, don't get involved with anyone at all, just don't. Didn't Billy teach you anything? You've got to stop now before things go bad. _

And it all went right out of her mind as one screaming thought took hold and wouldn't let go.

"Yes."

She could feel his smile, toothy and wet.

"Glad to hear it. Let's see if I can't make that evil list of yours."

His fingers looped through her hair, wrapping it around them as his other hand found the small of her back.

"You know, I was more than happy to go down on you in that horrible little room. But I have to say that I'm glad I can do it proper, now."

Murdoc made it a general rule not to kiss if he could help it, as long as he was sober enough to remember. Kissing was too emotional for his liking, too close to traditional romance and expectations that perhaps there'd be phone calls and dates and hand-holding. It was a cruelty even he was hesitant to inflict on someone else. Frenching was borderline, but too close to kissing for comfort. A bite was as close to a kiss as one could get from him.

His teeth sunk into the tender curve of her neck, coaxing a gasp out of her as she curled into him, her hands flying up to grip at his chest. She could feel his grin as his tongue ran over her. He slid up her neck, hot breath leaving a trail up to her ear.

“Could’ve avoided the whole scene tonight if I’d just climbed on top of you at the party. Would’ve shut Eli’s face real quick, watching me slip my hands into your knickers. Wouldn't even have had to break his nose.”

His hand ran over the small of her back, pulling her into him. It was terrifying. His touch felt frighteningly familiar, despite its rarity. Aside from that night in the Black Cat, she couldn’t remember him touching her for more than a second, just a passing bump or nudge and nothing else. But his hands on her felt like an old memory coming back to life. A memory she never had, but her body remembered it all the same.

She nosed him from her neck, cupping his face in her hands. He moved to pull away, but stopped himself, staying still as her lips brushed over his, careful and unsure. He watched her closed eyes, skeptical, letting her get close despite his apprehension. If he pushed her away now, he was afraid she might stop altogether.

Her kiss was small, barely there and gentle against his busted lip, a flicker on his skin. He tasted like blood and beer and the smell of cigarettes and sandalwood sent her head swimming. She felt his snort of a laugh blow against her. Her eyes blinked open.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?" she said more forcefully.

"I was going to say this is the nicest you've treated me, but nevermind."

Her brow crumpled.

"Now's not the time to tease me."

"Now's the perfect time to tease you." He bit down on her lower lip, smirking. "Don't be so serious. If you're not smiling or screaming, I'm not doing it right."

"You're an ass."

"Guilty. You’re too easy to rile, it’s almost lost its fun."

Her lips brushed his as she spoke, an almost kiss that she was too afraid to complete. She breathed his breath.

"Doesn't seem to stop you from being rude on the regular."

"Being horrible is hard work." He worked her shirt out of the top of her pants, his thumbs stroking her bare waist. His laugh was a drawl. "Tell me more about how terrible I am."

He could feel her trepidation, her urge to lean forward and close her lips around him. He guessed he could make an exception to the rule.

His lips sealed against her, stifling the words in her throat as he sucked the tip of her tongue. Angel's hands shot into his hair, pulling him closer. She was hungry, eager, the floodgates bursting open at the return of her kiss. She climbed into his lap, her hands cupping his face as she leaned down into him. His hands were on her ass in an instant, gripping hard, drawing out a gasp into his mouth.

“Never thought I’d see the day you came crawling into my lap,” he snickered, his palm pressing into her back.

He leaned over her, laying her out on the floor, the tile ice cold against the back of her neck. He worked her shirt up her ribs, thumbs sliding up until he reached the edge of her breasts, his nails scratching ghost-trails along her skin.

“Are we doing this here?” she piped up, squirming under him.

"You want to relocate?" he hummed against her stomach.

Her toes curled up, her shoulders rolling as his lips dragged down to the hem of her jeans.

"What do you want? The counter? The sofa? The bed? The stairs? You pick, I'll make do anywhere."

The button of her jeans popped open, the edge of her panties peeking out. She wished she'd worn the good ones.

"I'd like to get out of the puddle."

Beer was soaking through the back of her shirt, leaving her skin damp and chilled.

"Fair enough."

Pulling her to her feet made his back tense up as he stood, staggering back as he led her by the wrist to the couch. The joints in his knees ached and cracked, but he pushed the pain away.

He sat her down on the couch, his knees popping loud against the floor as he knelt down.

"Auuugh, you've picked a great time to get me going, Ange'," he grunted.

"I didn't tell you to get your shit kicked in," she breathed.

"True, but you got it just as good as me. Don't look too great yourself. I'll fix that."

He reached for the hem of her shirt, sliding it up her ribs to the edge of her breasts, and felt her whole body lock up. He glanced down at her, her eyes turned away and unblinking. For some reason, the shirt was a 'no', she just didn't want to say it. Murdoc dragged his nails down her stomach, running his fingers along the edge of her jeans. Her body relaxed, her grip on the cushion easing as he unzipped her.

He was gentle and careful and so unlike himself, pulling one leg then the other slowly from her jeans, leaving her bare. His hands slid over her thighs and down the backs of her calves, parting her knees. Anticipation and fear gripped her in equal measure. His hands wrapped around her ankles, keeping her legs still though she wanted to close them shut. He was so close, examining her, watching her. It made her nervous. When he looked up at her, the entire world inverted, all the breath in her body leaving her in an instant. He’d never looked more handsome to her than now, his eyes boring into her.

His fingers slipped around the hem of her panties, tugging them down over her thighs inch by inch. Angel fought the urge to cover herself. No one had ever gotten this close so fast. She wasn’t one for one-night-stands. It took a lot to get her into bed. Murdoc went from a kiss to going down on her so quickly it made her head spin. And she didn’t want him to stop. All at once she was terrified by him being so close and furious that he wasn't moving faster.

He spread her legs with one hand, the other wrapped tight around the back of her calf. A rush of warm breath shot over her skin as his long tongue dragged hot and wet along the inside of her thigh, up to her hip. Her knees jerked hard. Murdoc grabbed her ankles tight, pinning her back down to the floor. She ran her hands over the back of his neck, fingers wrapping around dark locks in desperation, as if he'd disappear if she let go. He groaned against her skin, the vibration of his voice splaying her open. The dampness of his mouth soaked her, his tongue running along the edge of her in a torturously distant stroke, forcing a strangled noise from her mouth. She could feel him smirking against her skin, his grasp holding firm. 

The heat of his mouth closed over her, the flat of his tongue pressing hard into her clit. The shock nearly shot her to her feet, her lips parting with an involuntary grunt. The room went blurry, her brain shutting down. Nothing in the world existed but him. Her thighs quaked, his fists tight around her legs. The world faded in and out with every stroke of his tongue, agonizingly long and slow.

Eli nearly broke his jaw, and jolts of pain shot through him as his mouth worked against her. But he didn't care, couldn't even be bothered to notice the ache as he watched her squirm in his grip. She sounded overwhelmed, her knees shaking, trying not to close around him. The tip of his tongue dipped inside her and a low moan rippled in her throat. Her hips rolled into him, her hands grasping at his hair. His groaning laugh vibrated inside her, his teeth grazing her clit just hard enough to make her seize. She looked like she was an inch away from losing it, and it made him so hard he could barely stand it. He couldn’t wait anymore.

The loss of him sent Angel into a quaking mess, her legs clamping shut, her hands reaching out for him. Murdoc was all teeth, smirking a wide, wolfish grin. He climbed overtop of her, not looking away as he reached down, slowly, between her legs and nudged her thighs apart. Angel's chest rose and fell with painfully shuddering breaths. Her body was on fire, her eyes glued on him. He leaned into the crook of her neck, dipping his finger into his mouth, his laugh low and quiet against her shoulder.

His slick finger slid into her, a long groan leaving him as he pushed inside. Her hips arched up into him, her hands grasping at his back as he pulled out, dragging over her clit before he dipped back inside. She choked back a moan, buckling as he pushed in until he bottomed out. Her thighs shut around him, tense and shaking. His pendant swayed against her collarbone as his long finger slid in and out of her, slow and deep. His lips parted in heavy breaths, eyes glassy.

“What a pretty little picture, you looking like this. Can’t say I haven’t thought about it. Better in person,” he grunted. “Do you like it, love? You wrapped around my finger?”

“Don’t be… so full of yourself,” she gasped, struggling to keep her voice even.

He laughed.

“I don’t know what I expected.”

He dragged the tip of his damp finger hard over her clit. Angel jerked, her hand clamped onto his free wrist. Her hips rocked against him, her entire body quivering, a sheen of sweat laying over her skin.

"Ooh, Ange', you're driving me mad. I've never seen you so undone.”

His finger bent, rubbing against the perfect spot to make her arch into him, his palm rubbing her clit just rough enough to pull a moan from her. She was so hot and slick, begging for each stroke so desperately that he could barely hold himself together.

He slid out, groaning. Angel sucked in a hitching gasp of air, leaning up on her elbows as he reached down to unbutton himself. Her stomach flipped and she sat up so quickly she nearly struck him in the face.

"S-stop!"

He froze, leaned back, his fingers trembling against his jeans.

"Change of heart?" he panted.

Angel's teeth ground together, her body closing up on its own. Anxiety was painted all over her face.

"I want to, I do. You have no idea. It's just…"

She didn't know how to explain herself, why everything up to this point had been fine, but the idea of him going inside frightened her so deeply that she had to stop. Her thighs ached where she anticipated pain, her throat closing up for a fist around it. Unbearable anticipation gave way to indescribable fear that made her feel sick. She didn't want it to go like that, not this time. She didn’t want to ruin this. Frustration shook her. _ Why can't you just be normal? _

He leaned down, tilting her chin up to look at him, her face flush with want and restraint.

"Tell me what you want and I'll do it. Whatever it is, a little or a lot or nothing. I'm not gonna push you."

Fear trickled out of her ounce by ounce as she looked at him with wide, panicked eyes. Her thighs relaxed around him. He was being serious. She panted, her voice coming back to her.

"Just… on the outside."

"I told you, I'll do whatever you want."

His smile was genuine. The request didn't seem to phase him at all. Confidence surged in her, making her giddy with excitement, chasing the fear from her mind.

"Sit up."

He straightened up at her command, looking down at her, his knees clenched tight around her hips.

"Take off your shirt," she panted.

He smirked, reaching back to slip his anti-cross from his neck and loop it over her head, nestling the pendant between her breasts. It laid golden and shining against the dark fabric of her shirt. The sight of it on her pulsed a hot wave through him.

"Hold onto that for me for a second."

He pulled her fingers to the edge of his shirt, wrapping them around the fabric. She complied, working it up his chest and over his head, the turtleneck collar messing his hair as it came off, brushing it away from his forehead. Her eyes ran over his body as his shirt pooled in her lap. It was surreal to see him so close. She craned her neck up to look at him, his hands on her shoulders. Her lips dragged over his navel, trailing light kisses over his skin. Murdoc froze, a shock running up his spine. Being touched so gently was... unusual. Pushing and pulling and biting and struggling, sure. But the soft brush of her lips, her hands taking hold of his hips to pull him in, it drove him mad with anticipation. It took real effort to keep still.

“Now you’re just playing around with me,” he laughed, his hands gripping onto her shoulders.

He watched his pendant sliding across her chest as she moved, his back tensing. Angel laid back, her fingers struggling with the button of his jeans. He leaned down over her, grinning an inch away.

"Need help?"

"I've got it," she muttered.

She fumbled, finally loosening his pants. He snickered.

"You managed to get it this time."

"I'll button you back up if you make fun of me."

"Oh, my mistake. No fun being made."

She looked down, her hands running over his silky underwear as she pulled at his jeans. She stifled a laugh, clenching her fingers around his pants. He was wearing a pair of silk briefs, patterned with pink and black tiger stripes.

"If you make fun of me, I'll button back up," he teased.

She couldn't fight the laughter.

"Are these for a special occasion or do you just wear shit like this all the time?"

"Oh, no! I don't wear these _ all _ the time. Sometimes I wear leopard print, or polkadots."

Her smile almost hurt, the cut along her face beginning to split back open. But she didn't care. It felt so good to laugh, to watch him laugh, to feel the warmth of him against her. He was just as much a talker now as ever with his mouth free. Anyone she'd ever been with had been quiet, or fumbled for something unnecessary to say. But then, Murdoc wasn't like anyone. She felt at ease. She melted.

He moved to work his legs out of his jeans and her hands flew to stop him.

"Leave them. And your boots."

He snorted a laugh, letting go.

"My legs are my best feature, but we'll do it your way."

His body fell against her, his jeans pulled down just enough. Angel's legs tensed around his hips, the length of him pressed hard into her through the silky fabric. He was bigger than she'd expected. With all his big talk, she thought he'd be smaller. Her hand ran over his arm, over his tattoo, down his chest and reached down to grab him, arching his back. Her thumb stroked over the length of him, her grip hard and pleading. Words left him, his brain short-circuiting. He bit down into his lip until blood sprung up, his jaw pulsing with pain, trying to hold himself back. He thrust into her hand, watching her lips part as he filled her palm, her grip tightening. With every stroke her breath turned ragged and loud, her thighs clamping hard around him, the back of her hand rubbing against the curve of her pelvis.

“Ah, Ange’, let me feel you.”

The pleading edge of his voice released her grasp on him. He slid against her, rock hard and hot. The silk slipped over her skin, clinging so tightly to him that she could feel every inch of him perfectly through it. Her fists clenched around his jeans, pulling herself closer into him. The zipper of his pants rubbed up against her, scratching like nails along the inside of her thighs, riding the razor’s edge of pain and pleasure. Murdoc’s breath hitched and he let out a garbled mix of a grunt and a laugh, his forehead pressed into her shoulder.

“Haven’t had heavy-petting like this since secondary school,” he laughed, but his breathing was ragged and thin.

Rutting against her, watching her but not being able to get inside, it was a different kind of dirty that made him hotter. His hand slipped under her, pulling her closer until he was lined up perfectly, feeling the wet slit of her as he bucked himself desperately into her hips. His cross slid over her chest, her breasts pressing against it with every stroke. Angel’s face was flushed, mouth open and wordless as she looked up at him with half-lidded, glazed eyes.

“Hah, you look close.”

“No,” she breathed, her movements shaky and rhythmless.

“Ballsy, lying to a liar,” he groaned, thrusting hard against her.

She hissed through her teeth, her thighs tensing around him. His forehead pressed against hers, his shoulders shaking.

"I want to watch you," he breathed into her mouth. "Let me see you."

She turned away on instinct. He pulled back, leaning on his arm over her.

"Don't be embarrassed. Don't think about anything else. Don't look at anything else. Just me."

Angel lifted her face up to look at him, her mouth hanging open in a shuddering breath. His eyes were glassy, focused on her, his thumb pressed against her wet lip. She panted, under a spell at the sound of his voice. She was coming apart in his hands.

"Lovely girl…"

Her breath hitched as he pulled back, the very tip of him just barely pushing inside her. Just enough. She seized, forcing herself not to look away. He brushed the hair from her face, lips parted. 

His back tensed, his mismatched eyes focused as he pushed against her. His pace turned wild and senseless, driving her closer. His hands came down on her jaw, keeping her gaze on him as she came, hard and overwhelming, the rest of the world whiting out. All she could see was him.

“Murdoc!”

“Oh, fuck...”

The sound of his name pushed him over the edge, every movement begging her for release as he arched into her, desperate to get inside her as he came against himself.

He slowed, panting, his eyes closed tight. Angel's throat was dry, her legs burning and quivering. His forehead was slick with sweat, his bangs brushed up to reveal his whole face. Murdoc laughed, gripping her thighs. Each one of them gasped for breath, tense against the other. The pad of his thumb dragged over her lips, his smile serene.

"Gorgeous."

She didn't want to let go and release whatever spell had come over her that made her ignore her own logic. He groaned, clamoring backwards off of her. Pain came flooding back as if he'd been run over, every joint in his body screaming. He struggled to stand, staggering to his feet.

"Don't go anywhere," he mumbled, swaying on locked knees towards the stairs.

Angel watched him disappear, laying flat on the sofa as her brain quickly trickled back to her, left with a horrifying question: what now? She just slept with her—current? ex?—boss. The exact thing she'd told herself not to do: get involved with someone. She rubbed her face, groaning, legs shivering and the warmth of her body still pulsing through her. She felt insanely good and horrible at the same time.

She could hear him turning on the shower upstairs. What was he going to do now? Kick her out? Did he expect her to stay? Either option sat like a stone in her stomach. He said it wouldn't change anything. Were they both going to act like nothing had happened? Or was this what they were now? She'd wished she'd thought more of that than the overwhelming desire for his tongue inside her.

But she couldn't bring herself to regret it even as she screamed at herself, the image of him on his knees so fresh in her mind. Her toes curled, her head rolling back. She hadn't felt this good in so long. The echo of his voice whispered against her neck, a small smile curling over her lips.

She'd pulled her panties back on when he came back, one leg in her jeans. He leaned in the doorway, a fresh pair of blood-red underwear on him, much tamer than the last, and an open black robe. His right knee was giving out, forcing him hard into the door jam as he stood.

"Trying to sneak out the back door, huh?"

"It's really late. I should go," she said in a small voice.

He hesitated, his grin unwavering.

"Alright, love, if you'd like."

She didn't know what she wanted. But she wanted to book it before he had the chance to awkwardly throw her out. He followed her to the front door, rubbing his jaw as it started to lock up.

"Don't be a stranger," he said, smirking, at least as much as he could. "And don't think you're off the hook telling me what happened to get you so pissed tonight. I can't be charmed that easily. Curiosity is my Achilles heel."

She looked up at him from the steps, a small smile on her lips.

"Thought it was your glass jaw, or your old joints."

"Listen, whippersnapper, I am in perfect working order, as you can see. You could only hope to be this fit at my age. It'll come sooner than you think."

The chain of his pendant brushed her neck as she moved, reminding her.

“Oh, here.”

She slid the necklace off, walking back up the steps to slip it over his head. He watched her, wordless as it settled against his chest, his skin still hot under her fingers. She stepped back in a hurry, making herself turn to leave, even though her body was begging her to stay.

"I'll see you later," she called, waving over her shoulder at him.

He was left cold on the stairs, his skin prickling.

"Yeah, I sure hope so."

The silence of the house was deafening. It rang his ears. Or that might have just been his eardrums from getting his head beat in. The sudden, sickening change from closeness and warmth and voices and touching to absolutely nothing left him empty and nervous. Pain wrenched every joint, unignorable now as he sat on the couch, staring at the floor. What did he want? Her to stay? It wasn't like he ever hung around afterwards, at least any more than he had to. This was just like any other time, so what did it matter? But still the nervousness nagged at him.

It was more difficult than he wanted to admit, adjusting to being alone. He hadn't been truly on his own for years. Not for any extensive length of time. It had always been the whole band, living together, on tour, then he was shunted off to prison, then it was the studio again, going on tour, rinse and repeat. Then just him and 2D and… He gripped his knee, fingernails digging into his skin as his joints flared in agony. Well, then after that, prison again. He'd begged for solitude for years, shoving everyone away, demanding to be left alone. And now that he had it… every moment was torture. Unfaceable, unadmittable, unbearable terror of silence. It was a mute, gaping maw that swallowed him up whole. It was nothingness. It was death. He could hear every thought in his head leaking out, so loud, they screamed at him. Every small, passing thought was a nagging, screaming beast that wouldn't let him rest for a minute.

He never slept now, at least not for too long. Two hours, three hours here and there, usually coaxed on by booze, or pills when he could get them. Fitful hours of nightmares, or dreamless voids that snapped hours past like minutes with no respite. Neither satisfied. So he paced, stared, roamed, talked to himself. He was a tiger walking the edge of its cage, hungry, tense, angry, waiting in the dark for something to get too close that he could reach out and grab.

His leg bounced. He snapped his knuckles just to hear something other than the overwhelming volume of his own thoughts. Maybe he could call her, tell her… Tell her what? Something. Something to make her come back. Maybe she left something behind? Maybe that he could drive her home? She was probably still on her way to the train, there’d be time to catch her before then. His nails sunk into the back of his neck, his lips curling into a sneer. Fucking pitiful. No, he didn't need that. He didn't need her. She didn't want to stick around, anyway. There wasn't any point in pulling her into this.

He lit up a cigarette, his hands shaking as he flicked through his vinyls to carry one over to the turntable, having trouble threading it onto the peg. The relief of sound took the edge off as his eyes slipped closed. He turned the dial up, his head throbbing. He didn't care. Pain was something at least. And something was better than nothing. His body was always falling apart, collapsing under him, constantly reminding him that he wasn't young anymore. His knees, his neck, his back. It all hurt all the time. He touched a hand to his jaw to feel the deep electric pang of an ache grip him. It made him feel nauseous.

His fingers drifted down to play with the pendant against his chest, its edges worn smooth from years and years of worrying. The image of it plunged between her breasts, over her shirt as he moved against her, was enough to make him shudder. He played the whole thing behind his eyes as he leaned heavy on his good leg. His fingers crooked, remembering the heat of her, so hot it almost burned. He hoped he left a bite mark on her neck, something he could see next time to make it real again. Her hair smelled like roses, her skin smelled like cocoa butter. It was so pleasant it almost made him sick to think of it.

She looked so needy, reaching out to him, touching him like she did… soft and pleading, harsh in its own way. Like he was the only thing in the world. It got him higher than any drug had in years. She was alive and flushed red and her breath was warm and her hands were eager. Like spring beating back winter with the sheer will to live. She saw him, actually looked at him, and he was something to her, whatever that was. He was a person to her. That wanting in her eyes... it was something intense that shook him awake and made his pulse rush. It fed him and he was starved. It made silence impossible to hear. And it made nothingness impossible to bear in its absence.

The dark pulsed, waiting for him.

He leaned hard against the couch, his eyes opening to gather in the dim light. Still, there was something wrong with her. Her trepidation, the way she locked up all of a sudden. Something happened to her. He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth, rubbing his temple with the edge of his thumb. It wasn’t his business, it wasn’t his place to ask.

His phone was laying on the floor of the kitchen. Maybe he'd just text her. Just to see if she got home. That would seem normal enough. He bent down, groaning and cradling his back. If he wasn't so impatient, he should have waited until a night where maybe he hadn't had his skull cracked off the pavement a couple hours before. But he could never wait for anything, no matter how much it would benefit him.

He grabbed it up, turning it over.

One new text.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The records playing are Etta James' "The Second Time Around", and Sarah Vaughn's "After Hours".

The late-night train was still running by the time she’d made it to the station, her body weightless as she drifted through the streets on auto-pilot. She shouldn’t have left, she realized about halfway there. It was almost three in the morning, and she was walking alone. It might not have been that bad to have stayed. But she’d committed. There wasn’t any going back now.

She watched it pull into the station, bouncing her leg, clutching her phone in her hands. The rush of her pulse echoed in her ears. She got up off the bench, her heart racing.

_ I missed the train, I’m coming back. Is that okay? _

“Hi.”

Murdoc was still in his robe, clutching another Peroni.

“This is the third time you’ve shown up at my house today.”

“It’s technically a new day.”

“Careful, I think you’re getting obsessed.” He leaned in the doorway, gesturing inside. “Well, come or go. Pick one and stick with it this time.”

His words were rough but he was smiling. She breezed past him, her body electrified as she crossed the threshold. He snorted, moving his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, shutting the door.

“Christ, I shouldn’t have let you leave like that, you’re a fuckin’ mess.”

“Don’t you sleep?” she muttered, looking into the living room at the sound of his turntable playing. Etta James. He’d changed the music in a hurry when he saw she was coming back, furiously flicking through his collection to find something. And he’d waited until she got to the door to put it on.

“No. Shouldn’t you be?”

Her heart raced at the sight of the couch, the fresh thoughts of him still buzzing in her. She could feel him standing right behind.

“It’s three already, what’s it matter at this point.” She looked back at him. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He half-nodded, stepping back.

“Do whatever you like,” he said in a small voice. “Maybe wash the lipstick off yer face.”

Her hand flew up to her mouth, wiping the edge of her lip. She hurried to the stairs.

“Oh, you’re kidding me…”

He leaned on the railing, watching her go up.

“Sorry about that. Keeping yer makeup neat wasn't exactly high on my priority list."

  
  


This was almost worse. He sat on the floor of the hall, staring at the closed bathroom door, the sound of the shower a muffled hiss in his ears. She came back. She wanted to stay. Wasn’t that what he wanted? To not be alone? But the look on her face when he opened the door… Maybe this meant something wildly different for her than it did to him.

That fear weighed heavy in his chest, strangling him. He took a long drink of beer, rubbing his face. If she was getting attached, this was extremely dangerous. And it frightened him how much he wanted to ignore that to alleviate the loneliness. Ten years ago, he would’ve told her to beat it, that he didn’t have time for fooling around after fooling around. But now he found himself more than willing to indulge her if that meant he staved off the silence for one more minute. He wanted her company more than he cared about looking aloof.

The sound of the music downstairs drifted up to him, his nerves running him ragged until he couldn't bear to worry about the potential time bomb he was harboring. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down. It didn’t mean anything. This was nothing. And if she read it differently, that wasn’t his fault. It wasn't his problem. She was a big girl, she’d get over it.

The water shut off and he nearly choked on his drink. He leaped up, hurrying back down the stairs as quietly as he could. He smoothed his open robe down, running his fingers through his hair quickly as he finished off his can. The record had played out, and he rushed to flip it over before he heard her open the door upstairs, grabbing two more beers and splaying out on the couch.

“Murdoc?” she called down.

He forced his voice to be even, trying to slow his rapid breaths.

“Yes, love?”

“My shirt is covered in blood. And beer. Can I…”

“Grab whatever you want outta my room. I'll put it on your tab,” he said, waving over his shoulder even though she couldn’t see him, relieved to have a minute to collect himself.

Angel glanced at the door, cracked open just slightly. His room. She’d never dared to go in before. She considered just putting her shirt back on, but she gathered up the towel around her and crept over to the door.

It was dark, even when she flicked the light on.

The purple silk sheets were messed and tangled up, his lampshade hanging crooked on its base on the bedside table. His dresser bore an impressive mess of melted candles, a full ashtray, a long knife stuck into the top, a cow skull, and a stack of books. She tilted her head, reading the spines: Faust, LeVey’s Satanic Bible, The Communist Manifesto, and Bridgette Jones's Diary. There was a box half-kicked under the bed. She eyed it, and slid it out of sight, trying to pretend she never saw it even though she desperately wanted to peek inside.

Most of his clothes were thrown around on the floor, like in the flat, but the good ones were hanging up in the open closet. She browsed through, grinning. His fashion sense was certainly… varied. She didn’t want to snoop, but she couldn’t help herself, pulling out a leather jacket to measure it on her.

All his pants were way too small. And she wasn’t going to pick through his underwear drawer. She was just going to have to go pantless and bear it unless she wanted to put her jeans back on. She picked out the longest shirt she could find, a button-up that barely covered her panties. It was the best she was going to get.

The gold glint of a box across the room caught her eye, laying under a stack of jackets—a little heart-shaped box of chocolates. It was the only food she'd seen in his house, though it barely counted. She lifted up the lid, wondering if there was some left. It was full, the chocolates taking on a powdery-white finish with age. She couldn't tell if it was a gift gotten, or never given. She set it down, covering it back up. He was truly bizarre.

  
  


The sound of blues, scratchy and slow, out of the living room eased her nerves as she looked in at him. A throb of anxiety gripped her as her eyes settled on the side of his face, turned away from her. There was a can waiting for her on the table when she came down. He grinned, pulling the cigarette from his teeth, watching the hem of his shirt move along her thighs. The urge to pull her into his lap was overwhelming, but he forced himself to stay rooted where he was.

“Good choice,” he hummed, all smiles.

“We’re drinking more?” she snorted, falling into the wingback chair across from him. “Haven’t you had enough yet?”

“You said it was three in the morning. If you’re awake at three, you have to drink coffee or booze. It’s the law.”

“Uh-huh.”

“By my count, you’ve only had two drinks tonight. Ah, plus a swallow of whiskey, which doesn’t count. So really, this is more for you than for me. I have some absinthe I could bring out if that’s too light for you. Or some sherry. Or a bottle of—”

“I think this is more than enough.”

She popped the tab, looking down at her hands. He was sitting on the couch and nothing she tried to think of could push the image of him over her breathing into her ear from her mind. Her whole body twisted up as she struggled to face the strangeness in the room.

“Look, I’m sorry about coming back, I know this is weird.”

He waved her off, slinging his arms over the back of the couch.

“I've seen much weirder. You’re not even on the list of strange post-sex interactions. No offense.”

She felt juvenile as her heart thudded at the word ‘sex’ coming out of his mouth. She tried to let it slide off.

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better.”

“Don’t believe me? Alright, let me think…" He snapped his fingers. “I went to Italy a bit ago. Did a little traveling to stretch my legs after I got out of jail. You’d be surprised how claustrophobic it’ll make you. I met this tallllll, looooong model. Didn’t speak a lick of English, but that didn't exactly matter. She took me round the city. Well, she took me round the back of a building. She didn't have to do much talking, her mouth was occupied."

A tiny key of jealousy wound in her. She pushed it away, wiggling in her chair.

“Well, it was summer at the time, so I’d bought a pair of sunglasses while I was there. But, ah, they didn’t exactly fit right. So while she was down there, they slid right off my face and hit her right in the eye.”

She nearly snorted beer into her nose, pressing the back of her wrist to her mouth to keep from spraying everywhere. He grinned, rubbing his finger and thumb together.

"She was not thrilled. I don't know what she was screaming at me, but I did get 'fuck you' and that summed it up pretty well."

"That's horrible," she giggled.

“Like I said, you're not even on the list.”

“That actually does make me feel a little better.”

He got up, slipping the played-out record from the turntable. Her eyes fixated on his long fingers slipping the disc back into its paper. She watched his back as he browsed his records, her body relaxing. Seeing him like this, in the dim light, just… being there. It felt intimate in a way she couldn’t describe. Just in his robe, silent in thought, his dying cigarette tucked between his fingers. He looked calm for once. It soothed her.

Her eyes shot away as he turned around, pulling a vinyl from its sleeve. He placed the needle on carefully, the speakers crackling. Sarah Vaughn. Another soft album.

“I didn’t peg you for a smooth jazz and soul kind of guy.”

“Didn’t peg you for a metalhead.”

“Fair. Though I was gang-pressed into it.”

“Well, I’m just an old man. It comes with the territory.”

She snickered, tucking her knees up against her chest, leaning back.

This was nice. It surprised her.

His skin prickled as he looked at her. This was nice. It terrified him.

_ Careful _ , he warned himself.  _ You need to back it up. You're encouraging her. _ But his eagerness got the better of him, as it often did, and he didn’t want to stop talking.

“Just 'cause I'm a rock and roll god doesn't mean I don't appreciate what other genres have to offer."

He wasn't lying. His collection was extensive. Out of everything in the house, it was the only thing he seemed to revere with any value. It was one of the few things he hadn't wrecked in the category-five hurricane inflicted on the living room.

“There’s a great little jazz club in London I like to pop into when I’m around. So I’m not all hardcore all the time. I do slow down once in a blue moon.”

He reeled back the next words that were trying to fall out of his mouth, cutting off an invitation before it could get out. He shifted quickly.

"My brother busted my nose in for being a rocker, when him and all his friends were punks. That's when I decided I'd never pigeonhole myself into one category. Closes off your mind."

She rested her head on her arm.

"You have a brother?"

He clammed up, cursing himself.

" _ Half _ -brother.  _ Older _ . Not as good-looking. You wouldn't like him."

She grinned.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe I would."

"Well that's too bad, Hannibal's on the inside. Locked up for stealing hubcaps or some dumb shit like that. He got all the brawn, and I got everything else."

"Hm, what’s he look like? Maybe I’ll write him a letter."

He leaned in, bristling.

“Long nose, beady eyes, long greasy hair. Sound appealing to you?”

“Someone sounds insecure.”

He scoffed.

“I’m a thousand times better than him in every way. You truly got the best Niccals, so consider yourself lucky that you can mark me off on your bedpost. He's an insufferable ass." He saw the smirk on her face. "In a not-so-charming way," he added.

"I'm sure he'd have a story or two about you."

"I'm sure he would, I was a very memorable kid. Valedictorian, altar boy, I was a protege." He couldn't keep a straight face looking at her. "Alright, I dropped out in secondary school. But! Hannibal's the one who ended up the family disappointment, so go figure. Serves him right for popping my nose three times."

He ground out his cigarette in the glass dish on the table, looking up at her from under his hair.

"What about you? Any hot sisters I should know about?"

She turned her palms up.

"One of a kind."

His eyes flicked to her left hand, to a long, puckered scar slashed down the middle of her palm. Had that always been there? He'd never really looked at her that close. His eyes snapped back to her before she could notice, his grin returning.

"No open-minded twin?'

"Afraid not. Just me."

“Hmm,” he hummed, feigning disappointment. “No pretty brother, either?”

“You’ll have to settle for this.”

“If I have to,” he sighed, covering his face. She could see his smirk under his fingers.

“I’m having a hard time imagining you as a kid. I think you just popped out of the ground the age you are now.”

“Unfortunately not. I was a very… lively kid. Though a lot of the early years are hazy at this point. I was the demon of Stoke-On-Trent, shooting out car windows with BB guns, getting into fights, cutting school, drinking, smoking, breaking young hearts… The usual route of youthful debauchery.” He clicked his tongue. “You and I would  _ not _ have gotten along.”

“You sound like the kind of kid I’d have beat up for acting like an ass.”

“I worked in a factory for a short stint, so I was in good shape in my younger years. I’d have liked to see you try.”

“Well, I was a diner waitress, so I know how to handle a difficult man. I definitely would have given it a shot.”

“Please tell me you had to wear a little outfit.”

She yawned, curling up.

“Mm-hm. And rollerskates. So I certainly would have been able to catch you.”

He buried his face in his hands.

“Oh Christ. You don’t still have it, do you?”

She laughed.

“The outfit or the skates?”

“I’ll settle for either.”

“Out of luck on both accounts.”

“This has been a night of disappointments, Ange’.”

“I’m sure.”

She fingered the rim of the can tucked into her arm, letting the other hang over the edge of the chair. Exhaustion had finally caught up to her, every muscle in her body begging to go slack. Her eyelids started sliding down, her brain shutting off.

“Thanks for letting me back, anyway.”

He shifted, leaning forward. She was falling asleep. He wanted to keep her awake, wanted to keep talking. But he reigned himself in, sinking back into the couch as his nails bit into the leather. Her head rested against the arm of the chair, her eyes slipping shut. Of course she was tired. She’d had the shit beat out of her and it was almost four. The rest of the world actually slept.

Murdoc snuck over, pulling out the beer wedged under her arm, setting it down on the table. He watched her relaxed face as he crouched beside her, his breath hitched in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone like this. Calm, sleeping, unbothered and content. That wasn't how people were around him. It was… strange. It made his skin crawl.

He quietly crept to the kitchen, pulling out a sachet of coffee from the cabinet. The kettle boiled on the stove, the spout open to keep it quiet. Every few minutes he popped his head back in, checking to see if she was still asleep, his hands clutching the doorframe.

This was weird.

Not because she came back. Not because she was asleep. But because the usual suffocation of night was just a bit looser around his neck.

He flipped the record as quietly as he could, turning the volume down a click, watching her softened face in the warm light. The heat of the cup spread through him, tucked close against his chest. He stood over her, just looking at her. If she’d woke up and saw him, she’d book it for sure. But he didn’t care.

Something had crawled into him and wrung up his insides. The urge to shake her awake slowly ebbed. He couldn't remember when someone had been so relaxed around him, by their own volition. It was a normalcy that made him uneasy and twitchy, and he couldn't decide if he liked it or not.

He backed up to the couch, watching her. He’d find something to do in a bit. For a moment, he just wanted to look at another human being that didn’t actively hate him that minute. For a moment, the thoughts that wracked his mind every second of the night were quiet, and the terror that gripped him in his solitude faded into an ignorable hum.

He fell asleep sitting up, the coffee growing cold and the turntable snapping off as it spun into silence.


	12. Chapter 12

The entire table jerked as Murdoc shot to his feet and slammed his shins into the side. The coffee mug went clattering off the edge, spilling out over the table as he buckled onto the floor, moaning. It took a long moment of blinding pain for him to realize he was in his own living room. And it was day.

He grabbed his phone up from the floor―eleven-fifteen. He'd slept for seven hours. And his head was pounding.

"Ange'?"

No response. Everything was still and full in the silence. The house was empty, and he was alone.

He snorted, tying his robe tight around his waist. Of course. Why would he expect any different?

It was a blessing, actually. Now he didn't even have to kick her out himself. No awkward conversations, no glad-handing or excuse-making. It couldn't have worked out more perfectly.

Murdoc sank back down to the couch and rubbed his knee, gritting his teeth though it made pain pulse through his jaw. With all the booze finally out of his system, he was raw and ragged and his leg just gave out. It was the same bad knee from the island, his left that buckled or locked-up every so often and ached when he was on his feet for too long. He'd twisted it hard and it never healed back right. Another reminder of his age.

His fist slammed into his thigh, the ache turning keen and harsh, a long hiss passing through clenched teeth. It wasn't like it was something he couldn't take. This was nothing. He was fine.

It took all his stamina to get upright without letting his leg go out.

Everything dominoed with his knee. The muscles in his neck were stiff, his jaw ached, his back seized and snapped as he straightened up, his pink eye was blurrier where his cheek had swollen up. He traced his puffy face in the hallway mirror. Eli had thrown him around more than he realized last night and if Angel hadn't been there to pull him off, he really might have gotten his skull cracked, or worse. It'd been a long time since he looked so rough. Part of him lit up at the sight. Getting into scraps was something he was well used to, it was something familiar, and one of the few things that actually managed to excite him. But that pleasure was wrenched out of him with every new ache that dogged him as he dragged himself around. He was starting to pay the price for getting his bell rung. His fist itched to put itself right through the glass.

The sound of the door clicking open made him jump out of his skin.

  
  


When Angel had woken up, Murdoc was still dead asleep, his head curved down, his hands resting on his thighs. She covered her mouth trying not to laugh. He slept like someone's dad in front of the TV. She was sure he wouldn't like hearing that.

She laid still, watching him. It was peaceful in the quiet morning, with everything quiet and untouched in the dawn, light creeping through the cracks in the curtains that caught the dust in a golden glow. Murdoc was all cast in shadow, but she could make out his relaxed face. It was strange seeing him so calm. She had been sure that he never slept at all.

She'd tiptoed back upstairs to get her jeans, slipping his shirt off and laying it on the end of the bed next to an assortment of dirty laundry that spilled off the edge and onto the floor. She needed something to eat, and there wasn’t anything in the fridge. Her eyes lingered on a pair of his pants. Under her hands she could feel the ghost of his ribcage, his skinny, taught waist and the bones of his hips. He was so thin. His build was wide-set and sturdy, but he was shrunken, thinned out. Like he'd been bigger before and deflated over time. The empty fridge pulled at her from downstairs.

She crept back down the stairs, eyeing him from the hallway with her keys in her hand. He was still asleep, his mouth wide open in a loud snore. He'd probably still be asleep when she got back. She wouldn't be too long.

She'd pulled the door shut behind her as quietly as possible, careful not to wake him as she slipped out.

  
  


"Murdoc?"

He froze, every muscle tensing. Angel stood at the door, a brown bag clutched against her hip and a cup carrier balanced dangerously in the other.

"Ah… Ange'..."

He leaned on the doorframe, his leg nearly buckling under him as he shifted his weight. He forced a grin and a sting of pain shot up his jaw. He winced, refusing to let his smile go.

"Well, well, look who's up."

She scoffed, a tiny smile creeping back to her face.

"I should be the one saying that. You slept a long time, I didn't want to wake you."

She breezed right past him and disappeared into the kitchen. His grin melted into a deep scowl as soon as she was out of sight. Why did she have to come back?

He drummed his fingers along the counter. This was… unpleasant. He remembered now why he never let anyone stay the night. The next morning was always unbearable, and this was no exception. It was back to playing the gracious host when all he wanted was to be left alone. What had he been thinking? In the light of day, the company wasn't worth it. He should have told her she couldn't come back. Or just never answered the door last night and waited for her to go away.

She slid a cup of coffee over to him beside a scone wrapped up in wax paper.

"Here, you have to eat something."

He glanced up at her. She looked… concerned. His insides snapped like a rubber band and it took everything not to lose his temper. Pity made him sick. He struggled a smile.

"What d'you look so worried for, Ange'? You keep frowning like that you're going to look like me in a few years."

"Well, your whole face is black and blue and you haven't eaten something in… well I don't know how long."

He scoffed, but even that sent a jab of pain through his skull, flaring his temper.

"I don't need mothering," he snapped, more harshly than he'd intended.

Her expression didn't change, his outburst rolling right off.

"Murdoc, you're probably not fine from last night."

"You don't look too good there yourself."

"I'm not the one that got cracked like an egg on the sidewalk."

"I told you, I'm _ fiiiine _."

Angel crossed her arms.

"Okay, then why don't you get up and help me put some of this stuff away?'

He picked at the edge of his sleeve, avoiding her eyes.

"Ooh, you know, I would, but isn't that your job?"

"You promoted me, remember? Menial tasks are _ your _ job again."

He clicked his tongue.

"Guess I'll have to hire another assistant," he grumbled. The chair screeched as he pushed it back. "Alright, alright, fine."

As soon as he got to his feet, his bad leg buckled and sent him reeling to lean against the table, a hiss shooting through his teeth. Angel grabbed his shoulder, easing him back onto the stool. He swatted her hand away. His breaths came in labored, hitched gasps, his smirk replaced with a deep grimace that made her let go.

"I don't need your help," he barked.

She hovered, watching him struggle to right himself and hobble across the kitchen to the living room. She trailed behind him.

"You're in pain."

Murdoc went ramrod straight, every ounce of him screaming, _Just leave me alone!_

"Like I can't handle a little fucking pain." He rounded on her, making her take a step back. "Look, little girl, it's been fun, but I think it's time for you to run on home, got it? I'm busy."

Angel froze in place and watched him round the corner into the hall.

Words abandoned her, and her legs rooted her to the spot. This Murdoc was a stranger against the man from last night. She drifted back to the kitchen, staring at the counter, a hole ripping in her chest. He was like an injured animal, lashing out in pain. But that didn't make his words cut less deep. Maybe leaving was for the best. Maybe she shouldn't have come back last night. She should have just left it at that and tried to pretend like nothing had happened. It was better to just forget about it. She was getting too involved, too attached to something that didn't exist in the first place.

She put the rest of what she'd bought away, her hands shaking. She was so stupid. She left her cup of coffee on the counter beside his, her stomach going sour. Angel gathered herself up, trying to hold back the tears of embarrassment that threatened her with wet eyelashes. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

He was crouched over on the third step when she rounded the corner.

"Murdoc?"

Her voice was soft and quiet. He could feel her hovering. Murdoc snorted a laugh.

"Ah, I'm taking a little break. You're exhausting to be around, you know?"

Angel didn't say anything. His head hung down, his hands gripping hard into his knees. Anger bristled in him.

"I told you I'm fine, so why don't you just leave me alone?"

She didn't flinch. Her eyes were flat and unblinking, but they were glazed and wet.

"Because I know you're lying, and I just want to help you."

"I told you I don't need your fucking help. I'm fine!"

"Then why are you still sitting here?"

His teeth ground together, latched shut as his brain scrambled to say something as pain pulsed through him and robbed him of his thoughts. He let out a long breath through his nose and his shoulders sank.

She could barely hear him as he talked into his lap.

"I couldn't make it up the stairs."

Every muscle in his body was stretched out and listless. Ten years ago he would have been fine. Being kicked around wouldn't have even phased him. He'd have been back to partying the next morning and barely felt a thing. And now he was like a puppet with its strings cut, too feeble and aching to get to his feet. It made him sick.

She tapped his shoulder, holding out her hand. He glanced over at her and back to the stairs. She shook him until he snapped his head up, a deep scowl set on his lips.

"Come on. Stop peacocking and get up."

He looked away.

She clicked her tongue.

"Stop being a little shit."

"Careful," he warned, glaring up at her.

"I don't think you could catch me even if you wanted to right now, Murdoc. So save the empty threats."

She shook her hand again, staring at him. He slapped his hand into hers hard, gripping on as she pulled him up, a loud groan leaving him.

It was a struggle getting him up the stairs, less because of his bad knee and more because he kept pulling away and fighting her with every step, making it take twice as long. But she was bigger than him and bullied him along until he was at the top of the stairway, where he wrenched out of her grip.

"Alright, you can leave now," he spat.

She walked right past him, disappearing into the bathroom. His mouth hung open.

"Are your ears fuckin' plugged? I told you to leave!"

The faucet burst with hot water, pattering against the bottom of the tub as she tested the temperature. He limped into the doorway.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"You should soak in some hot water. It'll help your muscles."

He tried to stand up as straight as he could, forcing through the pain as he hobbled over to her.

"I'm not a fucking kid, I can do this myself," he spat.

"I know you can." She turned the hot water up, swishing it around with her hand. "You know, you're usually such a little prince. You want people to do stuff for you all the time, except when you actually need help. Then you get mad. Why is that?"

His blood boiled.

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Freud."

She wouldn't even turn around to look at him. Her passiveness made him all the more frustrated.

"You told me to stop the bullshit and that you wanted uncut Ange'. I'm giving it to you."

She had him there. Even if he didn't like the results, it was what he'd asked for.

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean I have to listen."

"No, it doesn't."

She reached to pull the robe from his shoulders.

"Don't touch me! I've got it!"

Angel slid back, saying nothing. He let the robe fall right off him and fall to the floor. He didn't know if he could get his underwear off without an undignified amount of struggling, so he just collapsed into the tub without bothering, water sloshing over the side.

The water was boiling, so hot that he nearly shot back out, but he stayed in out of spite alone, his reddening skin slowly getting used to the molten temperature.

It was hard to reconcile the man in front of her now with the man who handled her so gently the night before. The Murdoc last night was warm and eager and confident. This Murdoc was raw and exposed and volatile. Two sides of the same coin.

She leaned forward, reaching out for his bad leg. He jerked away, wrenching his joints hard.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’ll help.”

He withdrew from her, pulling into himself.

"You can fuckin' forget it! I'm not some grandpa for you to take pity on."

Something snapped in her and the serene, quiet Angel was gone.

"Will you just let me help you for god's sakes? Or do I have to drown you first to make you shut up?!"

His mouth hung open but his words left in a puff of air. He fell quiet, going still.

He watched her closely as she reached down into the water to cradle his leg, fighting the urge to kick her off. The pad of her thumbs pressed carefully in little circles around his joints, light enough to keep from hurting him. She kept her eyes turned downwards, feeling his hot stare on her.

No one had ever touched him like she was now without being paid to. He never let anyone see him like this. He didn't say a word, hardly breathed or moved. He was horribly uncomfortable and wished she had never come back, but at the same time, he didn’t want her to stop. Throbbing pain eased into a dull ache. Her hands moved over him, kneading out the tension with every movement until he was languid and slipped down into the hot water, releasing like a bow.

She got up and grabbed up a washcloth from the shelf, dipping it into the water. He leaned his chin against the side of the tub, staring over at her.

"You know, you're a real freak."

It came out of his mouth without him even realizing it. But he didn't take it back, sinking deeper into the hot water.

Angel blinked, wringing the cloth out.

"I mean yeah, but why?"

"You don't have any sense of self-preservation, do you?"

She snorted. The warmth of the towel made him groan as she laid it across the back of his neck.

"I'm afraid I don't. I don't think I ever did."

He fought the wave of pleasantness that swept through him, cracking his eye open to glance at her.

"I have experience with difficult men," she snorted. "I'll admit, you had me rattled for a while. But I'm getting used to your particular brand of difficult."

Her level-headedness nettled at him.

The older he got, the faster his anger burned him out. When he was younger, he could be on a tear for days, weeks, months without running ragged from the rage. It fueled him, it drove him. Every waking moment was dogged with a quick temper and a sore throat from carrying on. But now that anger ran him into the ground. It sputtered him out like a wet match. The tension left him weak and tired. Every day he felt like he grew thinner until he thought he might disappear. His fire had been taken from him, and in the ashes it left, he was rendered desperate and afraid and small. That was the only reason that he was letting her stay at all, he thought. He was just too exhausted to fight.

He clung to the side of the tub, looking over at her. She looked untouched, unphased, and indifferent to his outburst. A porcelain mask. If he hadn't been so drained, he would have liked to pick at its edges and see how deep under her skin he could get before it cracked. He was good at it, peeling back facades until he got to something real and angry. Nothing got past him, and no matter how good the mask, he could always get it to come off. But he let it be, unable to muster up the wherewithal to push her.

She folded up a bath towel and knelt down beside the tub, leaning on the edge. He didn't move away, but he watched her carefully from the corner of his eyes.

Her hand dipped into the water, swishing it around, making waves that lapped at him in soft little slaps. She didn't expect an apology from him. She knew better than that. But his quiet resignation spoke for him in silence.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly.

That got his attention. He turned to look at her, his interest piqued. What the hell could she have to apologize for?

"I feel like I might have… put you through a lot last night."

"You're fucking kidding, right?" he snorted. He dripped all over the floor as he leaned towards her, getting her legs all wet. "You're not the one who bashed my head off the pavement."

"No, uh… that's not what I meant."

Realization hit him and a bark of a laugh burst out of him, his jaw clicking.

"You think you did this to me?"

His laugh made her chest tighten. It probably should have worried her that him making fun of her gave her relief. It was familiar. It eased her nerves.

"Well, alright, maybe I popped my jaw outta place, but that was worth it. I've hurt myself much worse than this in my extra-curricular activities. You didn't break any bones, so I'll chalk that up as a success."

Her face tipped away from him, but he could still catch the little smile that curled on her lips. The anger that simmered in him cooled. Her sympathetic face didn't press his sore spot for pity quite as hard. His hands itched to reach out and grab her, but they stayed locked on to the side of the tub, fighting the overwhelming urge to pull her close and show her he was still in working order.

"Old injury," he said quietly. "The knee."

"Old lover?" she said, her tiny grin affecting the tone of her voice.

"Haha, I wish. Never got fucked so hard that it kept fucking me forever, hahaha."

She tsk-d him, but it had no weight behind it. For one small moment, the air felt clear again.

"You know, I used to be a track and field star," he drawled, his upturned smirk giving him away.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, I was Olympic-bound, but I couldn't stick the landing one time and bang! Busted my knee all the way around. Doctors said I wasn't going to walk again, but here I am!"

She learned her chin on her arms, leaning on the edge of the tub next to him.

"Hmm, though you said track. Now you're a gymnast?"

"I was both! How do you think I got so limber and lean?"

"Uh-huh."

"A rising star, career cut short by a tragic incident. So I became a rock star instead."

"Wow, that's heart-wrenching."

"I know, tragic. Cut down in my prime, like Seigfried and Roy."

"Not athletes. Also he lived."

"Oh did he?"

He scratched at his stubble, turning away.

"I slipped," he admitted. "Wet rocks. I spent most of 2010 on a deserted island." She snorted, dismissing him. But the look he gave her made her stop. "Ah, no, that one's true, unfortunately. It's a long story. I was uh… wasn't looking where I was going and nearly blew my knee out. Add it to the list of shitty things that happened to me that year."

"I'm sorry."

"Pfft, why? You didn't do it. It was an accident."

He grew quiet, staring at the water. She could tell he didn't want to talk about it anymore.

Angel dipped her hand into the water and ran her wet fingers through his bangs, pushing them back off his forehead. He made the mistake of looking up and letting his eyes meet hers. He froze up, water trickling down his face.

She stood, rubbing her knees where they'd pressed against the tub and stretched out her back.

"Alright, I'll leave you be."

He didn't move to stop her. The water sloshed around as he laid back, his arm dangling over the side.

"Hey, you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll dock your pay."

She hovered in the doorway, giving him one last little smile.

"Who am I gonna tell? You should eat something, alright?"

He waved her off, turning away with a half-hearted grunt.

Something pulled at him. Something foreign and unfamiliar and uncomfortable that made him fidget. It turned his head as she clicked the door closed behind her and it bent his ear as her footsteps faded in the hall. And it lingered like a ghost in the air long after the heat drifted out of the water.

This was unbearable. She was getting too comfortable. He had to get out of this.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is "Strawberry Blond" by Mitski.

_ "Hey, I'm going to take a couple days to visit my friend. I'll probably be back on Monday. Is that alright with you?" _

"Fuck!"

How had she beaten him to the punch?

The receipt for his ticket to Ibiza burned in his inbox, all prepared for him to make a dramatic exit to distance himself and disappear for a week to clear his head, leaving her be for a while. Hopefully long enough for her to get over whatever was going on in her head. And she’d slid right under him, dipping out before he even had the chance.

He typed as fast as he could, which after deleting all the mistyped letters, wasn't very fast at all. Noodle made fun of him for being so slow, and it still frustrated him.

_ "Of course! I'm going on a little sabbatical myself. Just bought the ticket, I was about to text you." _

He groaned. Now it sounded like a desperate lie.

_ "Oh, okay! I'm going to try to get a little work done while I'm there, so I might call you! Have a good trip :^) " _

All the wind blew out of his sails. So much for a dramatic disappearance. He needed a drink.

He paced the living room with a glass of gin that was quickly growing warm clutched in his hand. All that big fuss she made about being persistent and now she was packing up and leaving. It didn’t matter to him that he had been planning on doing the same thing. It wasn’t the same. Not to him. His nails click-clacked along the back of his phone as he rode the line between rage and panic. He was angry that he was anxious and angry that he was angry. He shook himself, trying to peel his fingers off his temper one nail at a time. This was what he wanted―space. She needed a dose of distance. But she was the one shaking him off, and that unsettled him.

What did he do?

Was it because he yelled at her? Was that it? Now she was done? She seemed fine when she left. He'd done worse to her before and she'd stuck around, but maybe that was the line.

Was it the sex? Did she regret it and now she didn't want to be around him? Maybe―he thought, twisting his mouth up into a tight frown―she didn't think it was good. The look of her sprawled out with her mouth open infested him, making his hand tense. No, that was genuine. He could tell the difference between fake and real. Lying was his strong suit. But real or not, maybe it was too much afterward.

Behind all of it, a thought haunted him like an old bruise that hurt like hell when he pressed on it―maybe it'd all been an act and she'd been using him to ladder-climb. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd been used on someone's desperate climb to the top. But when he saw her in his mind, the idea of it made him sick. That would've been a long con.

He tensed up, forcing her departure from his brain with a combination of spite and ego. It didn’t matter. If she wanted to ditch him, it wasn’t anything to him. He didn't need help. He didn’t need her. He'd just double-down on rooting out Noodle. If he could get to her, the rest of them would come.

That was another thought that made him nauseous. He hadn't spoken to her in six years, though he hadn’t spoken to anyone outside his cell block and his handlers in six years, either. But the fact that it was unintentional wouldn't matter. Having been thrown in jail again wouldn’t make his case any better. And it was still a length of silence that would make speaking again horrific.

He sat down on the sofa, anxiously ringing her number for the millionth time. Voicemail. Again. Like always.

He hung his head and pressed his hands to his face as the glass sat empty on the coffee table.

  
  


Angel tried her best not to been seen on her way to the train station. A hastily bought baseball cap at a corner store kept her hair pulled out of view, her hood pulled up around her and a pair of large sunglasses pushed high up on the bridge of her nose. Angel realized, after walking past a one-way window, that it only made her stand out, like a celebrity dodging the paparazzi.

It felt like everyone was staring at her as she made her way through the station, her phone clutched in her hand. Like a huge target was plastered on her back. Her skin was electric with nervous energy, and it took effort to keep from running.

She still had enough money in her account to buy a train ticket and lunch on the way to the station. In fact, Murdoc had paid her enough that she forgot to check her balance until she was already waiting for the train. She'd been living on skinny funds for so long, she'd never forgotten to check her account before, and it filled her with a strange mix of relief and discomfort that she could just breeze her way through the day.

Angel looked at her shoes as she sat waiting for the train, the ones she'd bought with her first pay. She was lucky, she guessed, that Murdoc was so loose with his cash. He'd tucked away another £300 in her jacket pocket the night of the fight with Eli, though she didn't know how or when.

She shook her head. She needed a break from him, from all this. He was the only one she hung out with, and it wasn't like they were even friends, really. It would be good to get away for a bit. But she was still using his money. It burned a hole in her pocket as she waited, her shoes tapping together. Fran would be able to set her straight, she’d have some advice.

Angel pulled her phone from her pocket, plugging in her headphones and pulling up the video again.

She’d gotten a text late last night from a new number, and all that was attached was the link to a video on a tabloid site. Someone had gotten their weekend brawl on camera and uploaded the whole thing. She watched Murdoc get his ass beat and her lose control a thousand times, her jaw clenching tight and her stomach roiling each time it played though. She watched it again and again and again, and called Fran first thing in the morning, practically begging to come and visit her, to get away.

There was no doubt in her mind that Billy had sent it.

Her leg bounced, anxiety welling up in her. He was smart, it wouldn’t be too difficult to figure out where the video had been taken and get closer to tracking her down.

She hung her head, desperate for the train to pull in. She was so tired of running.

  
  


Fran’s place was exactly the same as she’d left it.

She’d picked her up from the station and hadn’t stopped talking since, demanding answers to a million questions that had been pent up inside her, mostly revolving around Murdoc, much to her exasperation.

Angel sprawled out on the floor at the coffee table, a towel thrown around her shoulders. Fran had refreshed her dye and trimmed up her hair, back to a solid shade of azure, though she'd considered going back to pink.

It felt good to be back with Fran, like sliding into bed at home after a long trip. She’d only lived with her for four months, but it had already started to feel like home. And coming back felt like no time had passed at all. They lounged around in their pajamas, drinking beer and cheap boxed wine and half-watching shit TV. And she felt like she could finally put down the burden of worry she’d been hauling around behind her.

But still, the video nettled in the back of her mind, daunting and distressing. It was just a matter of time before Billy sussed out where she was, or at least close enough to figure out the rest on his own. And if he didn’t find her, he’d definitely be able to find Murdoc and just bide his time.

She leaned her chin on the coffee table, spinning her half-full beer bottle lazily across the top. Fran set a bowl of ice cream down in front of her, pushing it close.

“Come on, stop moping.”

“I’m not moping. I’m worrying. That’s different.”

“Stop worrying, then.”

“I can’t,” she sighed.

Fran collapsed down onto the couch with her own bowl.

“Come on, you can’t control what’s going to happen. Look, you ran and it still caught up to you.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid of what’ll happen when he finally catches up. I have no idea what he’ll do.”

She stirred her ice cream, watching Angel thoughtfully.

“You shouldn’t live alone. You could come back with me?”

“It’s not that I don’t like being here, Fran, but I spent months trying to make something new for myself. That’d be like starting over.”

Fran shrugged.

“Move in with Murdoc.”

Angel scoffed, peeling the edges of the label on the beer.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll just do that.”

“Why not? You’ve clearly got it bad, and it sounds like he’s got the room. He already set you up with a flat, tell him you want an upgrade, haha.”

“I don’t ‘_ have it bad _’. I just slept with him, that’s it. And it was a mistake.”

"Well was it good at least?"

She groaned.

"It was so good that it makes me angry to think about it."

Fran cackled as Angel hid her face.

"I told you, he's packing, right?"

"I hate you so much."

"Hey, I'm not the one that slept with their boss."

"Ugh, don't say it like that. He's not really my boss anymore."

"Does he ask you to do stuff for him?"

"Yes."

"Does he pay you?"

"...Yes."

"Then he's your boss."

Angel turned away, taking a long drink.

"I came here to feel better, not worse."

"Aw, Angie, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be mean." Fran watched her, smiling against her spoon. "You should go for it.”

“There’s no way.”

“Why not? He sounds like a trip.”

She tensed up, gripping the bottle.

"Well, I don’t know, let’s see… He's a bastard. He's a jerk, he's rude, he's intrusive, he's a womanizer, he's a liar… Do you need more?"

"And you still slept with him."

Angel peeled the label off her beer.

"Angie, I know you wouldn't put out easy, you have to at least like him a little for that."

"I just… slipped up."

"Ah, no, you didn't fall on his dick by accident. You're an overthinker. There's no way you didn't know what you were doing. And you got yourself into a fight for him. That's not nothing."

Angel leaned back, her shoulders tensing.

"It doesn't matter if I like him or not. Nothing else is going to happen. Billy put me around that bend already."

"Not everyone is Billy."

"I know that," she snapped, instantly regretting her tone. She eased, curling into her beer. "I know that. It's still a bad idea."

"Oh, it's horrible. But you know I'm the wrong person to steer you away from bad ideas. He sounds fun."

"Fun is one way of putting it, she mumbled, staring through the green glass of the bottle. “There’s just no way that wouldn’t end with something going horribly, horribly wrong.”

“So what?”

Angel froze, staring at her.

“What?”

“I said, so what?” She shrugged. “If it goes sideways, it goes sideways. What, are you never going to get into a relationship again?”

“Fran, that’s what got me into that shit with Billy in the first place, just diving in.”

“Is he going to control your whole life and how you live it from now on? You gonna let him decide?”

A wash of prickling nerves rippled through her as Fran threw her legs up over the side of the sofa.

“If you didn’t like him, you’d have walked away already. Give yourself a chance. Do whatever you want. Don't worry about everyone else so much. Fuck him, and fuck Billy. If Murdoc doesn’t get with it, then that’s on him, not on you. If it goes bad, you’ll live.”

“I don’t know if I can take it going bad again.”

“You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

Angel leaned her cheek on the table, stretching her legs out with a long sigh.

“I came here to have you talk me down, not talk me into it.”

“You should know better than to come to me and not expect me to go with the most indulgent choice. I think maybe you wanted me to talk you into it.”

She groaned, laying out flat on her back.

“Your ice cream’s melting.”

  
  


Distance was what he needed. Something, anything to distract him from whatever it was that happened in that house. Something to drive out the impulse to keep interacting with her. The idea that maybe she was taking all of it seriously was daunting.

He’d been too personal, too eager for company to play it safe. He should’ve known better than to mess around. Things needed to be put back in order, back to how it was before. She was the only one left that would even speak to him, and he needed to keep that intact as long as he could. And if he kept handling her the way he was, he'd break her. She needed kid gloves, easy handling if he was going to maintain their working relationship for any length of time. He burned people up too fast. He liked her, sure. She was interesting. But it seemed that she liked him much more than he did. Falling in love was outside his abilities, and even one-way feelings made things too complicated for his liking.

She needed a hefty dose of absence.

And he needed a hefty dose of browsing night clubs for fresh faces.

Murdoc longed for the days when he could still smoke in a restaurant, wistfully gazing at people as they passed by as he sat out on the patio of a little bistro, jonesing for a hit of nicotine along with the wine. The rattling of his phone going off against the cast iron table made him jump. He let it go, picking his teeth. Whoever it was could leave a message. He’d get to it. Eventually.

And then it rang again.

And again.

And again.

Murdoc flipped it over, hissing. The color drained from his face―it was his PR rep from the record label. He groaned, forcing himself to answer the fifth call.

“Lenooooore, it’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough. I was enjoying my break from you. You should know better than to try to ignore me.”

“Still in love with me, I see?”

“Over the moon.”

He sighed, leaning back in his seat.

“Alright, what do you want? You never call me except to yell at me, so what is it this time?”

“You’re in the news again.”

“Oh, it’s been a little while. What for?”

“Don’t act cute.”

He chewed his lip, his jaw still sore.

“Well, you know that I get into it sometimes.”

“You pulled your lawyer into it.”

He blanked.

“My lawyer?”

“Or whoever she actually is. They’ve got the both of you on tape getting your bell rung. And her assaulting another musician. So that looks really great for us.”

“Pfft, Eli barely counts. He’s sold, what, five copies of his album? Six? Besides, he deserved it.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Augh, so what? Press is press is press. They’ve caught me doing worse.”

“If you’ve got time to get into trouble, you’ve got time to get your shit together and produce another album. Just get on the next plane back to Manchester. If you don’t, I’ll personally come and make your life a living hell.”

“Good luck finding me,” he laughed.

“You’re at _ La Rubí _ in London right now. And I know you’re going to Ibiza tomorrow, so you better try to get your money back for that ticket.”

He sat up straight.

“How the hell do you know where I am?”

“We’ve been keeping an eye on your cards.”

“Oh, Lenore, that’s stalking.”

“You forfeited your right to privacy a long time ago, Niccals.”

“Remind me to cancel my cards.”

"There's a reason we moved you out of London. You're too easily distracted. Maybe we should move you to a nice, quiet little cabin in the Welsh countryside."

He clicked his tongue, watching the wine circle the glass as he tilted it between his fingers.

“Can’t you relax for one minute? I’m taking a little holiday.”

“You don’t have time for a holiday.”

“I’m having a crisis of, uh… creative differences with my colleague.”

“Well fix it, I don’t care what you have to do. We’re coming by next week to check your progress and if you don’t have something for us, the extended deadline is off. And you go back to whittling soap in a tiny box. Which I’d be overjoyed to see, except that it’s my job to maintain whatever’s left of your good name.”

He picked at the hem of his shirt, his jaw clenched shut.

“Got it?” she pushed.

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Fix it.”

“_ Okay. _”

“And keep your nose out of trouble.”

“Alright, alright, _ alright _. Jesus, you’re so fucking annoying. No wonder you’re still single.”

“Muds.”

“_ WHAT? _”

“Happy Birthday, by the way.”

He tossed his phone onto the table with a snort. Who did she think she was bossing him around? His boot tapped against the ground, his nails snapping against his teeth as he bit into them.

"Fuck."

It wasn’t hard to find the article, it was the first thing that popped up when he searched his name.

_ Murdoc Niccals, frontman of Gorillaz, caught on video getting into a drunken brawl at a party over the weekend with a yet-unnamed female friend. The latest in a decades-long bout of bad behavior from Mr.Niccals continued on Saturday night, prompting a violent brawl late that evening. Witnesses claim the notoriously rowdy bass player was involved in a heated argument, leading to him being beaten outside a Manchester residence, when his female guest intervened, nearly strangling the instigator before Mr.Niccals convinced her to stop. _

_ Police say the other male involved in the incident has chosen not to file charges. However, the mystery remains: who is this blue-haired bombshell? And what is her relation to the 49-year-old bassist? Updates to follow as our investigation continues. _

Whoever took the video was close enough to get the whole thing―him getting his head beat in, Eli smacking Angel, and her grabbing him by the back of the shirt. She looked just as frightening from afar.

His fingers drummed along the iron table as he tried to sort out his thoughts. There was no way she’d seen it yet, or she’d have been calling him till he picked up to put him through the ringer. At least they didn't know who she was… yet. That was just a matter of time.

_ Fix it. _

Great. That would be easy.

It always came down to him to fix things. Admittedly, it was usually him that made a mess in the first place, but regardless, when the chips were down he was always left holding the bag. He played with the stem of the glass, watching the garnet wine ripple. 

  
  


When you could use celebrity status to toss around, it wasn’t hard to make friends in a hurry. If you paid for some drinks and managed to get recognized, the rest was easy.

Murdoc made everyone in the hotel bar his friend, elbow-rubbing and ego-stroking. He spent a good hour chatting up a redhead, who sidled right up to him and wound her arm around his, listening to him talk about fame and fortune and globe-trotting. But the more he talked, the less interested she became in his bandmates, and his deadline, and his PR rep, Murdoc ranting to himself until he turned to get her validation on his point and realized she’d slipped away without him noticing.

He glanced around. Everyone had drifted away from him, their interest waning as the thrill of celebrity drained out and they realized they were just chatting up a fifty-year-old man that wanted to shoot the shit. He rattled the large ice cube in his empty whiskey glass around.

What a shitty night. To top it off, he wasn’t even drunk.

His hotel room was deafeningly quiet. When he shut the door, it was like sealing himself up inside a plastic bag―muted and suffocating. He clenched and unclenched his hands, rubbing his fingers and thumbs together, a nervous tick that he never seemed to be able to shake. Nerves welled up inside him in the solitude, wringing him from the stomach up till he thought he’d pop.

He didn’t bother turning the light on and collapsed backward onto the mattress, a boat floating out in the open sea. He used to thrive on his own. His pride alone was enough to carry him through anything, and he could have taken or left company along the way. But now, every silence was crippling. Every moment alone trapped him inside his own mind. It was torturous. Somehow, along the way, he’d lost the ability to rely on himself.

Everything twisted around him and scrambled up his brain. Every thought that had tortured him through the night blended together to form a horrid, unbearable weight that pressed down on him and robbed him of his senses. Fear and anger and sadness welled up and flooded him, sucking him into darkness.

He sat up straight, unbuttoning the top of his shirt, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. The room felt tight. Hot waves pulsed through him, making his skin slick with nervous sweat. He struggled to his feet, pacing along the sliding glass door to the balcony as he muttered to himself.

  
  


Angel considered letting the call go. The phone vibrated against the table, the loud buzzing like a nail in her skull. She picked it up on the last ring, her hand moving on its own.

“Hello?”

There was no answer, just a long moment of silence. She checked to see if he’d hung up, confused.

“Murdoc? Are you there?”

The sound of his name made him lose all the breath in his lungs. He stood deathly quiet in the dark of his hotel room and stared at his boots. Her voice all at once thrilled and terrified him, his already wild heartbeat pounding in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He had no idea what to say. He didn’t even fully understand why he called. He just wanted to hear someone’s voice, anyone’s, except his own.

Worry pulled at her.

“Murdoc, are you okay?”

He shook himself, rubbing his face.

“Ah, Ange’... Sorry, the reception in here is horrible!”

His voice trembled, thin and reedy and quiet. A stone sunk in Angel’s stomach. Something was wrong.

“Are you alright?”

“Haha, of course!” That nervous laugh put her on edge. “Just… checking in on you. Making sure you’re staying out of trouble.”

She swallowed the dry lump in her throat, forcing her voice to be even and calm. She'd never heard him sound so strung-out.

“I thought you were out of town?"

He leaned against the glass of the sliding door, pressing his temple against the cool surface.

“Ah, I am. Three guesses where.”

“Uh… I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

She got up and slipped outside onto the front step, pulling the door softly closed behind her.

“Murdoc, what’s wrong? You’re kind of scaring me.”

His fingers ran through his hair, nails digging into his scalp and his body shaking with effort to keep himself contained. He wanted to tell her about the video. He wanted to beg for her to come back so they could show something to Lenore to save his skin. He wanted to tell her to back off and not get so close to him. And he wanted to say nothing at all.

“I’m fine,” he struggled.

She stared out at the empty street, crickets humming softly in the humid night. Her stomach twisted as she debated what to say.

"I'm sorry I just kind of took off.” It was better, she thought, to distract him rather than press him. "I've been having some… problems with my ex, I just needed to clear my head for a minute."

A wave of relief bubbled up through him, soothing the heat of his panic for a moment. So that was her deal. He hadn’t done anything. That was something he could handle. He sank to the floor, head leaned back against the glass.

"Oh, is that right?"

"I didn't mean to just vanish. I just needed some time to myself."

Murdoc stared straight ahead, unblinking.

"Well… hooking up with an ex never ends well," he drawled.

"Oh, Christ, no. Believe me, that will never happen."

She leaned over and rested her chin on her knees, struggling with what she wanted to say.

"What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into?"

His spine snapped up straight, his hand gripping his knee tight.

"Oh! You know, the usual. I'm in London. I was supposed to be on my way to Ibiza tomorrow, but uh… change of plans."

"Ibiza?" she snorted. "I've never been."

"Love, it's gorgeous. It's the most wonderful place in the world. Paradise! I could spend the rest of my life getting burnt to a cinder on the beach and drowning in tropical drinks."

A tiny smile pulled at her as he babbled. He talked just to fill the silence.

Murdoc struggled to pull the glass door open as it stuck to itself, a burst of weighty, humid night air spilling into his room. The purple night swelled with electricity, a storm on the edge of bursting into rain.

"Oooooh, Ange', you'd love it, bomboncita." The pet name made her flush. "You'd fit right in. I could juuuust imagine you in a tiny little bikini drinking sangria. Our dreary weather isn't doing your complexion any favors. You'd look like a sun goddess down there."

His words shot like an arrow through her. He sounded sincere.

"Well, you'll have to take me with you next time."

"Oh, if I was going, I'd have you shipped down there in a heartbeat. You'd look stunning in a lime green swimsuit with your bronze skin. You're wasting away in sweaters and jackets. I'd watch you in that crystal blue water all day long."

His wrist pressed against the fly of his jeans, getting hard at the thought. Every emotion tangled up into a mess, and he had no idea what he wanted. The most simple solution to that was to focus all that nervous energy on one, single distraction. But she was frustratingly absent.

"Christ, what I wouldn't give to have your warm skin against me right now. I'll tell you what, making love on the beach is a little bit more difficult than you'd think, but god I'd walk on glass to see you on that white sand."

Angel blanked. Every word he spoke made her twist up. She pressed the phone hard to her ear.

"I think you've had a few too many Hurricanes," she snorted.

"God no, those don't agree with me anymore. And no, unfortunately, I’m much more sober than I’d like to be." He breathed heavy into the phone. "I'd settle for just hearing you, that sweet voice of yours. Hghh, but that's not why I called. Unless you're interested, heh-heh."

A part of her had her interest piqued in seeing where that would go. She'd never had phone sex, and she was sure with his smart mouth that Murdoc was probably very good at it. But his voice still unnerved her. There was something decidedly unhinged about him.

"Ask me another time," she said, much more earnestly than she'd intended. "Why did you call, then?"

He craned his neck, trying to shake the image of her body against him.

"I'm coming back soon."

"When?"

He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face. The eager tone of her voice made him nervous. It almost sounded like she was looking forward to it, and the idea of that was horrifying.

"Tomorrow. Told you, change of plans."

"That fast? I still might be here, I haven't told Fran when I'm leaving yet."

"I could come visit," he said a little too quickly. "Ah-ha-ha… just kidding."

"Oh God, for your sake, you shouldn't. Fran's dying to meet you."

He leaned in the doorframe, a small grin parting his lips.

"You told your friend about me?"

She blanked.

"Uh… well, a little."

"What did you tell her?"

His tone was strange, and she couldn't tell if he was angry or just playing with her.

"Did you tell her I dislocated my jaw for you?"

The instant thought of his long, wet tongue against her shot into her like a bullet. She sat straight up, her face flushed.

"Absolutely not!" she hissed.

"Haha! Why not? I'm rather proud of the work I did."

He was making it incredibly hard to forget about when he insisted on vividly reminding her. He sat down on the balcony, grunting.

“Relax, Ange’, don’t get so tense. I’m teasing you. You make it so easy.” He drummed his long nails against the railing, struggling to find something, anything to talk about so she wouldn’t hang up.

“Today’s a big day for me,” he said suddenly.

“Is that so?”

He shifted, resting his burning hot forehead against the metal railing, staring out at the street below.

“I turned the big 5-0.”

She jolted up.

“It’s your birthday?”

“Heh-heh… told you, we’re both Geminis. Yours will be coming around the bend sooner than you think. What’ll you be? Sixty? Seventy?”

She didn’t take the bait.

“You’re spending your birthday alone?”

He stared sightlessly down at the ground, his forced grin wicking away.

“Ah… well, when you’ve had as many birthday bangers as I have, sometimes a quiet night is in order. Besides, I was supposed to be in Ibiza tomorrow, which would’ve been the best present I could have given myself, but eh… you win some, you lose some, right?”

“I wish you would have told me, I’d have waited to take my trip.”

She would have waited? Why?

“You said you’re in London, right?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

Angel twisted around inside herself, Fran’s big speech from earlier ringing in her brain until words slipped loose out of her mouth that she knew she’d regret.

“Maybe you should come and visit.”

His mind short-circuited, and all he could manage was a dumb, “What?”

“I know it’s not Ibiza, but I could at least buy you a drink?” Her stomach lurched and she went red in the face, feeling incredibly stupid for having said anything at all. There were a million better things he could have been doing. “I mean, unless you have other plans.”

“No,” he said without meaning to. “No, I don’t.”

"You'll have to put up with Fran."

"I'm sure I could manage."

"You don’t understand, he's a handful."

"Heh-heh, so am I."

What the fuck was he doing? The whole point of his retreat was to distance himself, not get closer. But he didn't want to be alone, back in his house arrest in Manchester staring at the walls until he slowly slipped back into madness. And she was dangling a rope out in front of him to pull himself up out of the pit of loneliness. It was hard not to want to grab it.

"Here," she said, typing up a message. "That's her address, if you feel like coming by."

He grunted non-committally, and silence settled in between them, making Angel nervous.

“It’s late, I guess I should probably let you go, huh?”

“No," he said a little too quickly. He tried to walk it back, rubbing his face. "Ah, well, you don’t have to if you've got something to say.”

She went back inside and settled down on the couch, laying back to stare up at the ceiling. He fell backward into bed, desperate to hang onto the shred of sanity he got from hearing another person’s voice.

“Alright.”

  
  


The hotel landline woke him with a start, panic gripping him until he realized where he was. He grabbed the receiver, nearly dropping it on the floor.

"Yeah?" he grumbled.

"Mr. Niccals, this is your 10 am wake-up call. Your flight for Ibiza will be leaving at noon."

He hung his head, sighing and rubbing his face. A wake-up call for a flight he wouldn't be catching.

"Right, right, thank youuuu..."

He struggled to set it down, burying his face into the pillow.

His phone was dead, still lying beside him. Last night came trickling back to him as he stared at the black screen. He fell asleep on the phone with Angel. A long groan left him. He jammed the charger back in.

Murdoc grunted as he sat up, sore all over. He'd slept in his clothes and boots, again. He was surprised he'd slept at all.

He stripped out of last night's clothes and pulled on the only other set he'd brought. The rest of his tiny suitcase was filled up with a travel bar kit, a weathered copy of _ Anna Karenina_, underwear, and a 100-pack of condoms.

The threat of a storm still lingered from the night before, the air full and heavy with a strong breeze, carrying dark blue clouds that rumbled quietly with thunder. He sat smoking on the balcony, watching the people pass below as he let his mind wander. He didn’t know why he still booked the penthouse rooms when he traveled alone. He never touched the kitchen or anything else besides the bath and the bed. The emptiness just made him feel even more isolated. Habit, he guessed, from touring.

He was between worlds, floating aimlessly. He considered just staying in the hotel until Lenore brought in some muscle to drag him out. Or maybe just skipping out of the country altogether on cash and disappear. They couldn’t grab him up if they couldn’t catch him. He didn’t want to work, didn’t want to write or play or focus on anything. Angel’s offer rattled around in his head. At least that would be one more day of relief, somewhere he couldn’t be found.

He stamped out the cigarette on the banister, letting out a long stream of smoke. Distance wasn’t as fun as he thought it would be.

His phone was on 1%, enough to send a text.

“_ Be there sometime today. Make sure you’ve got something to drink. _”

The sight of a black car out in front of the hotel made his heart sink. A man stood beside the door, watching him closely as he came up.

"Hm, Lenore sent you, right?"

"I'm supposed to take you directly to the airport, no detours."

"Of course," he muttered, then forced a charming grin. "Well, I’ve got a car of my own, so I won’t be needing your services, bruv.”

The man didn’t flinch or move. Murdoc’s lips tensed into a thin line before twisting back into a smile.

“Ah, I see… Well, at least let me get my stuff outta the car, right?”

He watched him closely, then nodded slightly.

“Alright. Be quick.”

He grinned wide, turning on his heel.

“Of course! I’ll be right out.”

The driver stood there, tapping his foot and glancing at his watch, getting impatient. He went to walk around to the carpark when Murdoc came tearing out, tires screeching as he sped down the street, waving as he went.

  
  


The sky opened up into a shower as he darted out of the car and up the walkway. This was the address.

He hovered outside the door, hesitating to reach out and ring the bell. This was a mistake. He wondered if he should just turn around and go back to the car, save himself the trouble and just drive right back to Manchester. There was still time to get back before Lenore really tore into him. But before he could make a decision, the door flew open and a girl came flying out and hit him like a freight train, nearly knocking him on his ass.

“Hi! You must be Murdoc! I’ve been dying to meet you.”

He babbled, unable to fight back a smile as she squeezed him hard.

“Ah, haha, you must be Fran.”

“Please! Get off him, I’m begging you.”

She still had her arms slung around him, turning back to Angel, who appeared in the door with an exhausted look on her face. Her chest squeezed tight when she saw him.

“He’s shorter than I thought he’d be.”

“Jesus, please…” She shrugged at him. “I told you she'd freak out. She saw your car pull up from the window. She’s been waiting like a dog for their owner to get back.”

“Aw, Angie, don’t play like you’re not excited. You were waiting too.”

Her face flushed, her arms crossed tightly. Fran tugged him inside, shutting the door behind them. He was trapped now. Half of him wanted to run right back to his car, but the other half hated to admit that he was a little flattered. He wasn’t used to such a warm welcome. Usually, his arrival was met with either irritation, fear, or a slap to the face. Sometimes all three.

“I knew the second I saw that mop of yours that it had to be you,” she said, her arm locked around his as she pulled him through the living room to the kitchen. “I might not fancy men, but you’re not half-bad.”

“High praise,” he said, glancing back at Angel with a mixture of amusement and apprehension. 

She shrugged at him, following behind.

Fran only let go of him to tear through her fridge to get him a beer, cracking it open and thrusting it into his hand before he could say anything, already getting one for herself. She was… excitable. He eyed Angel, who gave him no rescue as she laughed to herself.

“Is that a Cutlass Colonnade you’ve got out there?”

A wide smile slowly spread over his face. Maybe she wasn’t so bad.

“Fresh out of storage.”

“Ace,” she tittered. “You need to let me drive it before you leave.”

Angel leaned on the counter, cracking open her own can.

“She’s a car nut. She almost pissed herself when I told her you’ve got a 70’s Firebird.”

“An Espirit!” she piped in.

“She made me look up pictures online till I found the model.”

“That’s how we met, you know, chatting at a party,” Fran said with a grin, hoisting herself up to sit on the counter. “Angie knows her bikes and I know my cars. A match made in heaven."

Angel laughed as Fran focused on him. She knew she was chomping at the bit to get him talking.

“Murdoc!”

He jumped, preparing himself for what looked like an onslaught of questions waiting in her brain, the way she looked at him.

“How old are you turning?”

He chuckled, his lips hovering over the edge of the can.

“Twenty.”

“Stop taking the piss, be real.”

“Fifty.”

“Jesus!”

Angel flushed hot.

“Fran!”

“What?! That’s older than I thought.”

“Older and shorter,” he snickered.

“Well, here’s to fifty more,” she said, lifting her beer up.

“God, don’t wish that kind of punishment on me.”

Fran made conversation come easy, loosening Murdoc up with beer after beer until he was liquid enough to relax and bark out laughing as he rambled on with stories she egged on from him. They were chatterboxes set loose on each other and there wasn’t a moment of silence between the two of them. Fran mimed Eli swinging punches at Murdoc as he tried to defend himself, claiming that he just got the jump on him. Angel sat on the floor, watching them with a soft grin.

The windows were thrown open, letting in a cool breeze from the indigo sky, the day seeming more like night. She caught herself staring at Murdoc as he laughed, unable to keep herself from grinning as he did. He sprawled out, arms thrown over the back of the couch and nearly taking up the whole thing as Fran perched on the end, going on and on about how Chrystler ruined their Camero line. It had only been a few days, but she’d missed the sight of him, and the sound of his voice. She loved just watching him talk more than she could admit to herself.

His eyes slid over to glance at her and she sat straight up, quickly looking back at Fran.

“Angie!”

She blinked, shaking herself.

“Are you listening?”

“Uh…”

“She’s distracted,” he chuckled in a low voice, taking a drink.

Angel could have shrunk into nothing, feeling small under his stare.

“I _ said _tell him about what Billy did! Your album!”

She twisted up.

“Ah, I don’t think he’d be interested in that…”

“Oh, I’m interested.”

She sighed, leaning on the coffee table.

“My ex took a bunch of the songs I’d written and put them all out in an album under his band name last week.”

“He fuckin’ robbed her! Took her shit and acted like it was his. Can you imagine the fuckin’ balls on him to pull some shit like that?”

Fran went on and on about what a cock he was, but Murdoc was silent, staring right at Angel. Why she’d been so upset the other night clicked in his brain.

“I can write more,” she mumbled. “It’ll be fine.”

Fran clicked her tongue.

“She really does just pump them out, but still. What a waste. Mm!” She nearly coughed, leaning over to set her beer down. “Angie wrote a song for me! Back in February, you remember?”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Haha, I don’t know if it was for you.”

“It was my party, so I count that. I fuckin’ cried like a baby when I heard it. She just grabbed up my old guitar and banged it out. She’s a fuckin’ genius, honestly.”

“It was two verses.”

“D’you ever finish it?”

“Mm,” she hummed.

Murdoc eyed her, tapping his can against his knee, unable to pinpoint the swelling feeling in his chest, a cocktail of curiosity and jealousy. She was a wellspring when he’d run dry.

Fran got to her feet, stumbling to the bedroom.

“Aw, Fran, don’t make me play it,” she called. “I swear to god, she thinks I’m her daughter, the way she touts me around.”

He scoffed, kicking his leg out.

“Must be nice to have a cheerleader.”

His tone felt like it had an edge to it, and it made Angel’s face fall.

Fran came hurrying back, carrying her beat-up steel-string she’d bought off a friend for cheap. Angel groaned, taking it out of her hand as Fran pulled up a chair from the kitchen table for her.

“Oh, don’t act so cool in front of Murdoc, you play for me all the time.”

“I’m not a radio, Fran,” she muttered, but it was true.

Fran usually would make her play any time they had company, whether she wanted to or not, and she had company often. She claimed it would “help with her stage fright”. It was something Angel had gotten used to, and she had to admit that playing to small groups sitting around the living room did build her confidence. It was easier to ignore a crowd than five people with their eyes trained on you. She’d tried out new songs on her makeshift audience and quietly started to look forward to it when she wrote something.

But Murdoc was different. It was like playing soccer with Beckham in the stands.

Fran cracked open a new, cold beer for her, despite not being finished with her first, and set it beside her, brushing Angel’s hair out of her face and planting a kiss on her forehead. Murdoc felt the tightness in his chest melt into warmth as she smiled. Her fingers danced over the strings.

“_I love everybody because I love you. When you stood up, walked away, barefoot. And the grass where you lay left a bed in your shape. I looked over it and I ached. I love everybody because I love you. I don't need the city, and I don't need proof. All I need, darling, is a life in your shape. I picture it soft and I ache. Look at you, strawberry blond._”

She sounded happy. It killed him.

“_Reach out the car window, trying to hold the wind. You tell me you love her, I give you a grin. Oh, all I ever wanted was a life in your shape. So I follow the white lines, follow the white lines. Keep my eyes on the road as I ache. Look at you, strawberry blond, fields rolling on. I love it when you call my name. Can you hear the bumblebees swarm? Watching your arm, I love it when you look my way._”

Fran lent her own voice with Angel’s, grinning. He glanced over at her. This must have been a song she’d asked for more than once.

“_Look at you, strawberry blond, fields rolling on. I love it when you call my name. Can you hear the bumblebees swarm? Watching your arm, I love it when you look my way._”

Suddenly, he felt like he was in a place he didn’t belong in, a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit with the picture in front of him. Nerves ate at him as he watched the two of them talking. He wondered if he should leave, cut his losses now before he was edged out.

“Murdoc!”

He jerked, turning to see the both of them looking at him expectantly.

“You play, right?”

He plastered on a smirk.

“Bass, love. The best you’ve ever heard, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Ah, not much of a guitar player, though.”

“Uh, that’s a fuckin’ lie,” Angel piped up, pinning him down with her eyes.

“Come on, play us something.”

This wasn’t normal for him. Usually, the lure of the spotlight was too much for him to resist in any situation. It didn’t matter what it was. He wanted to be in the middle, all eyes on him. Showing off was his favorite hobby. But he found himself strangely sheepish with just these two girls watching him. It was unsettling.

Angel watched his face carefully and dove in to save him, turning back to Fran.

“Murdoc wrote something I put a tune to.”

He looked at her, the anxiety in his face easing.

“I finished it last night. I was going to wait till I got back to show you, but I guess now’s better than later. Fran can tell me if it sounds like shit,” she added with a chuckle, her eyes flicking up to him.

“_Where does it come from? When everything was outside, busted and blue. Out in the universe, through the lithium, busted and blue. I was asked by a computer, a shadow on the wall, an image made by Virgil to rule over us all, to amplify the sirens and to find real amends. I'm through the echo-chambers. To other worlds I went.” _

It sounded different than he expected coming out of her, different than how he played it in his head as he wracked his brain to finish it until he gave up and moved on to the next one. She’d reached the end of what he’d come up with, but kept going.

“_Where do they come from? The wires that connect to us. Weightless I fall on your body. 'Till we're invisible. I'm with you through altitudes, busted and blue. All my life, all my life. Beam a light on me, I am a satellite, and I can't get back without you. Busted and blue. _”

Murdoc was quiet, just staring at her as Fran babbled and jostled him as she wiggled beside him. It made Angel nervous as she clutched the neck of the guitar, barely hearing what her friend was saying. She couldn’t tell if he liked it or not and the tension was killing her.

A wave of energy rushed through him, making his hands shake. He wanted to pin her down on the floor right there and then. His doused wick burned hot again and he felt the urge to create something trickling back to him, something that had left him for six years. He felt charged and alive.

Fran nudged him hard, bringing him crashing back to them.

“That was good!” she burst out.

He forced a little laugh.

“Of course, I wrote it.”

“You got anything that’s not depressing, though?”

“No,” he snorted.

He lifted the beer to his lips, watching Angel so intensely that it made her spine straighten.

Fran dragged them both out in the rain to pick up a generous order of Thai food that she insisted she was getting for the birthday boy, but it was more that it was what she wanted. She ran ahead of them, pulling her jacket up over her head as she went. Murdoc and Angel dragged behind, Angel’s hood pulled up around her, and Murdoc not even making an attempt to cover himself, getting soaked as they went. They walked silently, Angel stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye.

“Are you not going to say anything?”

He looked over at her.

“Did I do something? Is it Fran? Did you not like the song? I can change it.”

He let her run her mouth, his face blank and unreadable. They slowed to a stop as Fran rounded the corner, and Murdoc grew so close to her that her back pressed up against the wall.

“It’s not Ibiza, but you gave me a pretty fair present. I think maybe I won’t be getting thrown back into the slammer.”

Her mouth fell open a little as she searched his eyes. He leaned into her ear.

“D’you think Frannie’s a light sleeper?”

She popped back around the corner, yelling at them.

“Come on! I’m not carrying it all back myself.”

  
  


Fran demanded he stay the night, practically throwing herself in front of the door, but it took frighteningly little convincing to make him give in. He eyed Angel across the room, not being very subtle as she tried her best to ignore him. She insisted that she sleep with Fran in her room, despite both Murdoc and Fran insisting that she didn’t have to. The possibility of what happened before happening again made her tense. She didn’t trust herself not to make the same mistake twice.

She laid beside Fran, staring up at the ceiling, drumming her fingers along her stomach. Regret weighed on her, and she could feel him in the other room. Quietly, she got out of bed and pulled her jeans back on, carefully slipping out into the hall and tiptoeing out to the living room where he was stretched out on the couch, his arms behind his head.

“Hey,” she whispered.

He shifted, looking up at her.

“I could be lounging in a five-star hotel right now,” he said playfully, a smirk on his face. “Sipping cava in my own private hot tub.”

She sat on the arm of the couch.

“Mm, instead you’re slumming it in a Southend flat. You’ve really come down in the world.”

He snickered.

“I can’t sleep,” she said in a low voice.

“Feh, you know I never do.”

She glanced back at the hall, then leaned in toward him.

“Let’s go get a drink.”

He sat up, already on his feet before Angel could stand. He remembered what Lenore had said about tracking his card, and turned to her in the dark, grinning.

“Your treat, though.”

She snorted, reaching for her shoes.

“Technically you’re still paying.”

“Ouch. It’s the sentiment that counts, love.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussions of physical, sexual, and mental abuse, depictions of PTSD, discussions of death.

It was still busy at the bar on the corner, bustling with old regulars and kids hanging around. They squeezed themselves in right at the end of the bar, tucked in with their drinks growing sweaty in the heat.

"Sorry about Fran, I know she's… a lot."

"She's quite lovely. Reminds me of me back when I still did coke," he snorted. "Can't do that shit anymore. Heart beats so fast, I damn near pass out. This old body can't party like it used to, unfortunately."

"Christ, you act like you're turning eighty." Her mouth moved faster than she could think. "Your body seemed to be in well-enough working order before."

She froze, staring straight ahead, but she could feel the huge grin on his face. It burned into the side of her skull.

"Ooh, Ange', you're going to make me blush! You're such a flatterer. Maybe I will pick up coke again. I was verrry productive."

The rim of his glass stopped at the edge of his lips.

"So, you've become the unwitting victim of highway robbery."

Angel looked down at her drink, her hair falling over her shoulder as she let out a long sigh.

"I didn't want to get into it. What's done is done, and there's not much I can do about it."

"Oh, there's always something to be done if you're willing to go far enough."

"It's not worth the entanglement," she muttered. "He's more trouble than he's worth, and not the good kind."

"Sounds like a one-in-a-million lad."

"Mm, that's true, he certainly is." She ran her fingers along the edge of the glass, feeling herself being pulled at the seams. "He…"

She cut herself off, pressing her lips tight together, wrestling with how much she wanted to say. Murdoc watched her, drumming his fingers along the bartop, then turned away.

"Don't have to justify it, attraction doesn't make sense." He clapped a hand to his chest dramatically. "The heart wants what the heart wants."

She scoffed.

"Believe me, if I'd known then when I know now, I don't think I ever would have. Honestly, I don't know if I was ever really in love with him, or if I loved the way he made me feel."

Murdoc stared down at the bartop, squeezing his glass in his hands.

"Well, at first at least," she said, knocking back the rest of her drink. "Sorry, I didn't mean to turn your birthday drink into a sobfest."

"Oh, you're describing 99% of my birthdays, it wouldn't feel right without someone getting weepy. It's just usually me."

She snorted.

"Well, glad I could oblige, then."

His eyes slid down to her hand, her finger running over the raised scar slashed across her palm.

"He did that, didn't he?"

She closed her fist, not looking at him.

"Yes and no."

"Christ, a secret wrapped in an enigma. You're really not the sharing type."

"You're telling me it would be a good idea to tell you all my personal secrets?"

"Of course not! But that doesn't mean I don't want you to! Love, I  _ live _ to hear other people's business. What good are friends if you can’t get to the skeletons in their closet?"

“Oh, are we friends?” she snorted.

“Welllll…” he drawled, looking away. “We’re…”

He clammed up. He didn’t know how to answer that question and not get slapped.

“I’m teasing you,” she finally said, a small smile on her lips. “I’m not so loose with my skeletons.”

“That’s not any fun,” he muttered, relieved to be rid of the struggle of coming up with a response.

The bar hummed with conversation and they both fell silent, each one of them struggling with something they wanted to say, but having an impossible time getting it out of their mouths.

“You know about the video, huh?” he finally said.

“Mm, I knew before I left.”

He snapped up, watching her closely. He found that hard to believe. He thought he'd have gotten a furious call for sure.

“That’s part of why I left. Well, not the video itself. I don’t regret getting involved, especially seeing it again. He’d have killed you.”

He scoffed, stirring his drink roughly.

“Billy sent me the link the night before I left. And I figured if he could suss out where the video was taken... I had to get away and clear my head. I couldn’t just sit in my apartment and wait for him to come knocking. He’s… eager to track me down. He doesn’t let things go easily.”

Murdoc twirled the straw around the rim of his drink, the ice rattling around in the liquid.

“That’s why,” he muttered. She glanced over at him and he cleared his throat. “Why you took the job.”

“I had to get out of dodge. Manchester was a fair distance away, I figured. I didn’t think he’d find me. But then, I didn’t know I was hitching myself to a wagon with your level of publicity.”

“Well, you should be more careful who you get involved with,” he said, regretting it instantly.

“Yeah, I learned that lesson the hard way.”

She turned around quickly, getting to her feet.

“Can I borrow a smoke from you?”

He coughed out a little laugh.

“Ange’, I’m a bad influence on you.”

“You wish.”

The rain finally stopped, leaving the road steaming and the air heavy and thick. He pulled out a carton of Lucky Lungs and fished a lighter and a cigarette out of the pack, lighting hers up for her.

"You've been torturing me to tell you what my deal is, right?"

"Ooh, have I finally worn you down?"

She ignored him, taking a drag and trying to psych herself up to speak. She’d had just enough to drink to loosen her tongue.

“You remember I told you I was here to take care of my Aunt?”

He grunted, blowing a long stream of smoke out. Angel kept her eyes on the street, leaning up against the wall.

“My cousin brought me over from the US to here to take care of her. She couldn’t really do much herself, and he was busy and needed someone to take care of her between day nurses.” She shook her head. “I honestly didn’t even think he remembered who I was, we hadn’t seen each other since before my dad died. I wasn’t really doing anything. Hopping from odd job to odd job, writing, making shit that never went anywhere. Besides, Morehead isn't exactly a bustling metropolis unless you really like commercial ocean transport. So I snapped up the chance to go somewhere else, start over.”

She took a drag, staring down at the pavement.

“Paola was always nice to me. Taught me a little Spanish, told me a little about the family." A tiny laugh bubbled up. "She told me every detail of my quinceañera, even though it was just a party in the backyard, you know, but it was the event of the century for her."

She looked far away, her eyes distant as she raised the cigarette up to her lips.

"Hmm, anyway, I came over, Diego got me settled, and I just did little things, you know, laundry, grocery shopping, cooking. Heh… I was just practicing for working for you, I guess."

"Ooh, I don't think any amount of practice could prepare you for that."

"I didn't mind it. I liked the routine. I felt needed, and I felt safe. No more floating around or busking."

Angel stopped, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb before clearing her throat.

"Um… well, I made a few friends, Fran and some others. I was asking around to see if anyone was looking for a singer or a guitarist, and one of them gave me Billy's number."

She flicked her ashes onto the pavement, the cig burning away between her shaking fingers. She didn't know why she was saying all this, didn't know why she wanted to talk. It wasn't as if she thought he cared. But he was frustratingly easy to talk to, and she found once she started, she couldn't stop.

"So, I met up with him. He had a metal band, which I'd never done before, but he said he liked my voice, liked how I played, and he said he'd try me out. He was… persuasive. And I was naive. He took me to London a few times, really laid it on thick. And I hadn't been in a real relationship in years, so I just ate that shit right up."

She took a long drag.

"And I was happy, you know? I thought I was. I wrote so much music, it was unreal. I just sat in my room and played till my fingers went stiff. It was great. The perfect picture." She counted out on her fingers. "Family. Career. Boyfriend. I was set."

"And then?" he muttered.

"And then… Billy changed. Well, he didn't change, I just started seeing the real him underneath. He started getting really shitty about the stuff I wrote. Apparently I wasn't  _ 'fitting the band's image' _ ," she said with air quotes, rolling her eyes. "So, it started with that. Then he didn't like that I couldn't make it to some gigs he'd booked because I had to take care of Paola. And it rolled from there. He was… bitter and nasty, and I felt guilty at the time, like it was my fault, like I changed and I let him down, and I needed to fix it. But the more I tried, the worse it got."

A gaggle of girls came out of the bar, laughing and giving Murdoc a lasting look as they shuffled past, whispering and pointing. He managed a little wave that made them all erupt and hurry along, giggling. Angel pulled her hair to one side, laying it over her shoulder.

"And then one night he just showed up at Paola's house and I came outside to talk to him because he was shouting. I had to take her to a doctor's appointment and I hadn't made practice that day. And he went on and on about how I wasn't taking things seriously and I didn't respect him. And then…" She glanced down, snorting a laugh with no humor behind it. "He told me… that he wished Paola would drop dead so I'd pull my head out of my ass. And… I slapped him. And he slapped me right back."

She ground out the cig on the wall, leaving the butt resting between her fingers. She gestured to her cheek.

"He was wearing a ring. Big, heavy skull. Right across this cheek, same as Eli. I think that's what really set me off with him. Billy hit harder, though. Nearly cracked my tooth. That was the first time. And that must have set something off in him, cause he'd get… rough with me when we were together, more than I liked. But I felt like there was something wrong with me, so I went along with it." She raised up her palm. " _ This _ was a blood-pact. He made me let him cut me, and I had to do him. I thought I was going to puke, I'd never cut anyone on purpose before. He said that we were starting over, a new page, and that it would prove that we were partners. A load of shit, that's what it was. Thank fuck he was clean."

"Then he said I was a crybaby, and that I had to toughen up. That I'd never make it if I couldn't keep up and nut up. That he was just trying to make me rougher. So I tried, I really did. But he just got shittier and shittier, and he slapped me around a few times. Not enough to do real damage, but enough to scare me. But… what really did it… was then Paola did die."

She stared at the ground, feeling tears start to spring up in the corners of her eyes as she struggled to keep her voice even.

"Um… she just went in her sleep, you know, and I found her in the morning and I just… lost it. It was like everything I had was just…" She snapped her fingers. "All gone, all over again. Diego organized the funeral and I was helping him get things sorted out, and… I got a call from Billy."

She put on a gruff Cockney accent, her voice deep.

" _ Where the fuck are you? We got a show tonight. _ "

Murdoc would have found the voice funny if she'd been talking about anything else, and kept his comments to himself.

"And I told him what happened… and he said… ' _ The bitch is already dead, just throw her in the ground and get your ass over here.' _ And I… just… that was it, I couldn't do it anymore. It took me out of myself and I knew I couldn't look at him again. I got all my stuff from Paola's house that night and I showed up at Fran's sobbing like a baby. I couldn't even get my things from his place, my guitar my dad gave me before he died, my clothes, my notes, I just left it all. And he just went nuts. He went to all my friends asking where I was, calling me, texting me, and thank God Fran's a great liar when she wants to be, it took him months to figure out where I was. I just stayed inside, mostly, but I ran into his friend on the street and he figured it out. So I left, went to Carrie's place, left, went to Alan's place, went back to Carrie's… And the whole time he's dogging me, saying I'm going to come back, that I'll realize I made a mistake."

She fell quiet, her eyes wet and glossy with tears that leaked down the side of her nose. She sniffed hard, rubbing her face. A dry laugh left her.

"And then I got a tip about some crazy hasbin musician looking for an assistant, and I figured how could that  _ possibly _ be any more insane than what I'd gone through in the last year. Boy, was I wrong."

Cars rushed past in the dark, hissing over the wet pavement that reflected orange in the streetlight. Angel's stomach was loaded with lead, and she regretted bringing it up, but now she couldn't stop herself as Murdoc stood absolutely silent as the grave beside her.

"I feel so… fucking stupid. I just hid, I ran away, deleted all my shit online. That's not how I used to be, I never put up with anyone's shit before. I've knocked around my friend's boyfriends that got physical with them, and I never thought I'd be on the other end of that. But for him I just… rolled over and let him take over my life. And now I just go from one place to the next like a fugitive hoping he never finds me. I've stayed at your flat longer than I've stayed somewhere in a while, and that's been what… two months? I just... I feel like such a goddamn coward. It kills me. I really can't stand myself."

"My dad used to beat the shit outta me," he said suddenly, lighting up another cig. "Me and my brother."

Angel snapped up to look at him, her stomach dropping.

"He was evil. Truly fucking, real evil. The Devil wouldn't want him."

He tapped the bridge of his nose.

"Broke it twice. This," he said, his nail pulling at the eyelid under his pink one. "Threw a chemical in my face when I was ten. I'll let you in on a little secret, I can only see about fifty-percent out of this one. So, that was a nice little permanent present he gave me. He broke my rib when I busted his turntable. Knocked my tooth out when I was sick and I asked him to take me to the doctor. Said if I asked him for some dumb shit like that again, I wouldn't have to worry about being sick anymore. Just a lovely man. Creative. I never knew if I was just getting the belt, or some exciting new form of torture. I was his favorite little punching bag. Hannibal was bigger, it was harder to knock him around. I was short and easy to grab."

“I walked in on him with a lady in the living room, one time. She got upset, said she didn’t want to get involved with someone with kids, and she left, all upset. Da’ told me that he was going to teach me for interrupting so I’d never barge in again. He grabbed me 'round the neck and choked me. I was too small, no matter how much I struggled I couldn't get free. He just squeezed until I blacked out. I honestly thought he was going to kill me. Came-to on the floor later, and he was gone. I was ten, then.”

“Sometimes,” he said, coughing, “he’d make me dress up in little outfits and sing shitty songs at the pub to make a few pence off the drunks that liked to have a laugh. He loved to embarass me almost as much as he loved himself. Then he’d get absolutely shitface drunk and forget I existed. It was… insufferable.”

The world was folding in on itself, every word that came out of his mouth making her twist up. Angel felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. The reality of his words sunk in, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. Murdoc rubbed the bridge of his nose with the edge of his thumb, his eyes wet.

“I wanted to leave, but I knew if he caught up to me he'd kill me for sure. I stayed until I couldn’t take it anymore. He beat me one too many times. I snuck out and got a few drinks in me. I couldn’t come home one more time. Hannibal had left and it was just me. Me and him. I wanted him dead. I wanted out. Thought about just killing myself and letting it all go there, but I couldn’t let him slip out like that.”

He looked up at her, and there was something in his eyes that made her blood run cold.

“I set the house on fire. I didn’t know if he was inside or not, but I hoped to Satan he was. I wanted him to burn. But he was at the pub that night, of course. I should have checked. I was too angry and too drunk at the time to have thought it out. I remember standing in the yard across the street, watching the neighbors come out. The fire brigade came, everyone was in a panic. I just stood there and watched. And then I saw him coming up the street. Fucking creature that he is. He looked at the house, and then he looked at me.”

“I ran away. I’d been keeping some of my things I didn’t want him getting his hands on in an empty house on the edge of town, and I split. I never went back. Never talked to my brother again. Never went back home. So, I know a bit about running from your problems.”

Everything was still and quiet in the dark. He sounded like a different man.

“You're not a coward for running. You'd just been beaten one too many times.”

They leaned up against the wall, each of them watching the street intently, neither of them knowing what to say to the other. He rubbed his finger and thumb together hard until his skin was hot with friction, nervousness stacking up in him with every second that passed. He shouldn’t have said that. He didn’t know what possessed him to. It just came out. He’d only ever told a handful of people about that, and only when he’d been so plied with booze that he probably would have given out his bank account number if they’d asked. But now his mind was sharp, and regret swelled up in him. He had to change the subject, and quick.

He flicked his butt into the gutter, a short burst of smoke shooting from his nostrils.

“You said he had something of yours?”

She nodded, unable to bring herself to speak.

“Go close out,” he muttered, grabbing the keys out of his jacket. “I’ll pull around.”

“What are you doing?” she called after him, rooted to the spot.

“Fixing it.”

  
  


She’d pictured this moment over and over in her head, what it would be like to stand outside his house again, how it would feel. Her heart was throbbing in her chest, throat tight and mouth dry, her stomach a wild mix of frightened nausea and clenching anger. Every cell vibrated with tension. Exactly like she thought it would be.

Murdoc’s car idled in the alleyway along the wall of the building. Angel shook her head, trembling.

"He's not home, his car’s gone."

"Perfect! Breaking and entering is my specialty. Though, I'm fifty-fifty on the getaway.”

The car door slammed loud in the night, sending Angel into a panic. She scrambled out after him.

“We… we can’t! If he comes home and catches us―"

“Then it’ll be two-to-one and I like those odds. I’ve seen you in a scrap. If you joined an underground fighting ring, we’d both be rich.”

“I’m more worried about spending the night in a jail cell.”

“Oh, please. It’s not as bad as everyone thinks. Maybe it’ll give you some perspective.”

Murdoc eyed the brick wall, grinding out the butt of his cig on the bottom of his shoe.

"Hope I’m still spry.”

He took a running jump, gripping onto the top of the wall. It took every ounce of strength in him to hoist himself over, his joints straining. It was embarrassing how difficult it was to scramble up and over, and he would have been more sore about it if he wasn’t using all of his effort in getting his bad leg over with the rest of him. He landed with a thud, nearly twisting his ankle.

Her mouth gaped open. He was in Billy’s yard. She was about to be in Billy’s yard. It was insanity. It was risky and unnecessary and stupid. She paced a minute, fighting the urge to turn and run, and then jumped up, pulling herself over with much more grace than her partner.

Murdoc was already at the back door, his white shirt was streaked through the middle with dirt. Angel couldn’t help but watch him, hating that even now he looked almost handsome, dressed like James Dean in his tight jeans with his hair brushed back from his face, which had all been unfortunately undermined by his struggle to get himself there. James Dean didn’t have a limp. She shook herself. This wasn’t the time to be staring at his ass.

He peeked in, trying the handle. Locked, of course. Billy wasn't the trusting type. He rubbed his knee, squinting up at the second floor.

"He lock his windows?"

Angel glanced up, then back to him.

"I'll boost you up."

He spat out a laugh.

"Shouldn't you be the one leaping through windows? I’ve got a few years on you. Abrocatics aren't my strong-suit anymore."

"Can you pick me up?"

He cleared his throat, looking Angel up and down.

"Fair point."

The second floor window was small, too small for her to shimmy through unnoticed. But Murdoc was squirrelly enough to maybe make it. She crouched down, bracing herself and knitting her hands together.

"Alright, watch the heels," she muttered.

"No promises."

She grunted under his weight, bracing him to clamor up onto her shoulders, his heels digging hard into her skin. She gripped his ankles hard, gritting her teeth as she held him steady.

"You see anything?"

"Doesn't look like."

He pushed up on the window, and it slid open, slow and quiet. Murdoc dragged himself up inside, grumbling.

"Quiet," she hissed, rubbing her shoulders.

Time moved like a glacier. The wait was unbearable, until she heard the lock click and Murdoc slid the glass back door open.

"One more flawless break-in in the books," he laughed.

It was like walking into a haunted house. Cold and unbearably familiar. Billy's ghost moved through her as she stepped into the flat. Months and months had passed and suddenly it was like no time had passed at all. Her blood rushed like she was going to puke, and she had to dig her nails into her hot palms to ground herself.

Murdoc sneered at everything. He flicked his switchblade out of his pocket, grazing it dangerously over the leather couch.

"So, you want me to slice up his shit? Break his telley? Reset his wifi password?"

The answer was yes, she wanted to break every single thing in the flat. Bust up every piece of furniture. Smash his guitar. But she didn't want to push it any further than she already was.

Angel grabbed his hand, giving him a hard stare.

"No. Don't touch anything, just help me look."

"Christ, you're no fun at all, are you?"

She checked everywhere on the first floor, systematically going through everything and trying desperately not to disturb anything too much. Murdoc was more interested in the scenic route. He opened up all the drawers in the kitchen, sorting through the contents, plucking out a cinnamon toothpick and sticking it between his teeth.

“Don’t take anything. I don’t want him to know we were here.”

"Boring place. You've got bad taste in men," he muttered.

"What does that say about you," she said under her breath.

He slunk up and reached around her, his hands on her hips.

"Ooh, wait a minute, dearie. Are you saying I'm your man? Eh?" He breathed into her ear. “What a startling confession.”

Every part of her flushed hot, a pulse of gut-wrenching fear running through her. She didn’t mean to say that out loud.

"No," she said quickly. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh, what did you mean, then?" he purred.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. He ran his fingers down the front of her throat, down over her collarbone and her sternum, smiling against her hair. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but that horrified, hot look on her face was too much and he couldn’t help himself. It was just too much fun making her squirm.

"Would that be so horrible?" he whispered.

She shuddered, wriggling in his grip.

"Don't play with me like that, it's not funny."

"Ah, you're too easy, love. Yer always so serious." He snapped his fingers, letting her go. "Why don't you and I have a quick shag in his bed? Really give him the business."

That coaxed a laugh out of her.

"You're out of your mind."

"Wouldn't be the first time I've fucked a girl in her boy's bed," he shrugged, running his finger along the edge of the mantle. "Easier than burning the house down. And quicker, haha."

The thought stuck for a moment. She could see him over her, in the sheets Billy used to do her in, Murdoc's hands tight around her wrists and her legs wrapped around his back. Her body flushed. That wasn't going to happen, not again. She couldn't let herself get in that deep.

"I just want to get my guitar," she said quickly.

He rolled his eyes, biting down on the toothpick.

"Suit yourself."

The stairs watched her like the mouth of a huge beast. She was rooted at the bottom, looking up. His bedroom. The guitar had to be in there, if he didn’t sell it or break it in a fit of rage. Her heart was in her throat. Going into his room would be like stepping into his skin. It filled her with terror, and every step she climbed made her legs shake under her.

The door to his bedroom was open, and the sight of it killed her from the top step. She had to fight the urge to go back downstairs, glancing back to see Murdoc making his way up behind her. She squeezed her eyes tight, sucked in a long breath and wrenched her hand off the banister.

His bed was unmade, covers thrown around, and his underwear tossed on the floor with his socks. A graveyard of personal items that had been innocuous at the time but now felt like markers of where love had died. The air in the room was so thick with the smell of him, it nearly made her sick. The vanilla and musk of his body spray turned her stomach and drew out tears that threatened to fall down her cheeks at any moment. She could feel his eyes on her, black and cold and piercing. It took every ounce of nerve to make her feet inch into the room.

Murdoc was right behind her, but he might as well have been a thousand miles away. She was completely alone with Billy all around―the sound of his voice, the feeling of his skin, the scratch of his stubble, his black hair that curled and fell around his face. Every detail, every inch that had taken so long to wane from her mind came flooding back in heinous detail. She could hear the low, rich silk of his voice in her ear, the feeling of his breath on her face. It twisted a knife in her stomach. All of it felt like love at the time. All of it felt delicate and intimate. Now it felt like fingers around her throat.

“Ange’!”

“What?” she gasped, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she snapped back into consciousness.

He was on his knees, his arm thrust under the bed. He tugged out a hard black case, its pleather shell riddled with scratches and scars. She fell to the floor, pulling it to her and snapping open the lid with shaking fingers.

There was her Telecaster. Mint green. Untouched. Perfectly imperfect and worn. She ran her fingers over the glossy body, relief washing through her. Murdoc got to his feet, grunting.

"Could have been just fine with the Strat, love. This’s a starter model."

"No." She clipped the case shut, stroking the surface. "My dad bought it for me when I turned fifteen. It's all I've really got left."

He was quiet for a moment, rolling the toothpick in his mouth before pocketing it. She got up, her head swimming and light with a wild mix of relief and anxiety.

"Let's get out of h―"

The world spun and before she could right herself she was on her back. Murdoc leaned over the bed, climbing on top of her. She blinked, overwhelmed.

"W-what―"

The look on his face sent a shock of desire through her, his eyes half-lidded and his lips curled up in a sly smirk. He ran his thumb over her lower lip, an inch away from her. His anti-cross dragged over her bare neck. His breath smelled like hot cinnamon, cloyingly sweet with an edge of nicotine.

"I want to give you something, love. When you think about this place, you can think about something that made you happy instead of him," he whispered into her ear. "You can think about me, instead. Would you like that?"

Her mind flooded with that thought. All the times Billy had grabbed her by the hair, went too rough, or pushed her around, painted over with Murdoc arching her back and filling her ears with his voice as he babbled and moaned, out of his mind until the end. He'd be loud enough that the neighbors could hear. His fingers in her instead. His tongue in her instead. His boots and jeans still on and his back drenched with sweat until his white shirt was stuck to his skin. Where Billy had dug his nails into her back so hard she bled, would be where Murdoc would do anything to make her cum.

Her body shook and she had to turn her head away from him to hide the conflicted look on her face.

“Y-you’re awfully full of yourself.”

“Confidence is half the battle, love. I can make it quick, if I have to. I’ll get you off in three minutes, tops. You’ll be impressed.”

Her cheek brushed against the sheets and in a snap, nausea overcame her, her eyes screwing up tight. The stench of Billy was unbearable. It reeked. It flooded her. It was all over, clinging to the bed in a thick miasma of involuntary memories. Tears sprang to her eyes and she clenched her jaw tight till she thought she’d break her teeth.

She reached up without thinking, pulling Murdoc down to her to tuck her face into the curve of his neck, breathing in deep to fill herself with the scent of cheap aftershave, sandalwood, smoke, and sweat, something distinctly him that gave her a second of relief. He froze, his hands pressed hard into the bed as she held him close, her hands grasping the back of his shirt in tight fists.

“Hm, is that a yes?” he grunted.

“Please, I want to get out of here.”

Her voice was thin, straining to even make it out of her throat. He pulled back, his friskiness quickly extinguished with the wide-eyed look on her face. It startled him into submission.

“Alright, alright.” He struggled to break the tension, flicking her nose as he clamored off her. “Don’t look so sad when you’re committing a crime. You’re taking all the fun out of it.”

He grasped her hand and tugged her to her feet.

“If I can’t entice you with sex, I think I can tempt you with something almost as good.”

They shut the door behind them, creeping silent and careful through the shadows in the backyard. Angel vaulted herself up onto the wall for him to pass the case up to her. He nearly fell onto his hands on his way back over, his bad knee giving out on impact. He winced, struggling to stand, glad that Angel was ahead and couldn’t see him limping.

She set the guitar in the backseat, her nerves quickly returning, making her jumpy, terrified that Billy would pull in right at the end and catch her. In the crisp night air, she could smell the scent of him clinging to her shirt. She grunted, peeling it off of her in a panic, throwing it in the back, shivering in her bra.

“Oh, change your mind?” he laughed, coming up behind her. “You’re lucky I’ve got a big car, heh-heh.”

“Let’s just go.”

She went to open the door and Murdoc slammed it shut. Angel blanked, nearly dropping the keys when he chucked them at her.

“You can drive the getaway.”

Her chest was full to burst, disbelief dissolving into trembling excitement.

She hurried inside before he could change his mind, jamming the key into the ignition and roaring the car to life. She hadn’t driven in so long. Fran was going to kill her.

“How fast can you go, love?”

She threw it into drive and the tires squealed against the damp pavement, ripping them out of the alley and into the night.

A loud laugh exploded from her. She felt high. Every nerve was lightning, sparking a joy that she hadn't felt in so long. She was giddy. It was like she'd stolen back a part of herself. One more thing that Billy couldn't take from her. He was far behind and growing further away with every second she roared down the empty street.

Murdoc was laughing an insane, cackling laugh that made her vibrate with adrenaline as she sped onto the highway, alone in the blue night.

  
  


She pulled off to the side of a back road, beside a glen of heather and yarrow that shook in the warm night breeze. They sat on the hood, watching the flowers sway like waves, an ocean of green, and the only sound was the wind and the light buzz of insects.

She took a deep breath.

“I feel… light.”

“That’s the coming down from the adrenaline,” he snickered.

The breeze on her bare skin felt like a sigh.

“Is this what you felt like? When you left?”

He made a strange little grunt, leaning back on his hands.

“Fifty-fifty. I was also scared shitless, I had no one and nowhere to go. It was terrifying and fucking amazing.” He chuckled, looking over at her. “You don’t look scared.”

He leaned over and pinched the corner of her smile, making her snort a laugh as she playfully smacked him away.

“I’m not. I’m actually not.”

She rested her chin on her knees. She should have been worried. Worried about what would happen when he realized her guitar was gone. Worried about Billy tracking her down. But for the first time in a long time, she stepped out of Billy’s long shadow and she felt exposed and free and herself. She’d exhausted her fear and all that was left behind was the afterglow of the drive.

“Murdoc.”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He tightened up, sweaty hands tensing against the hood, then let go, looking out at the land that sprawled out under the moonlight.

“... You’re welcome.”

  
  


They crept back into the house, carefully walking in the darkness. Angel set the guitar case down lightly beside the door, pulling it closed with a soft  _ click _ . She held her shirt tight in her hand. The living room felt small and she could feel him behind her, her heart clenching.

When she turned around he was an inch away, his finger slipping under her chin, his grin wide and toothy.

“If you think breaking in’s a thrill, I can top that.”

She pressed her hands against his cheeks, leaning back. He grunted, eyes darting away.

“Hmph… Whatever, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

Her grip tightened, her thumbs stroking him. He glanced back up, tensing as she leaned in and kissed the edge of his lips, just out of reach. A little groan left him, her hands drifting away, leaving his skin cold and prickling.

She slipped down the hall, disappearing into Fran’s room with one last look at him before closing the door behind her quietly.

  
  


He sat on the step, leaned over with a cigarette jammed between his fingers as he scrolled through his phone, searching through Angel’s Instagram to find her band. A little digging took him down a rabbit hole of clicking and clicking until he finally stumbled on it. An old picture of Angel with Billy’s band, with her right up front, her hair an unfamiliar dark brown and a man wrapped around her shoulder. A man that looked strangely familiar. He brought it closer, squinting. The urge to vomit swelled up in the back of his throat. He hadn’t seen that face in so long, not since their band broke up years ago.

It was Billy Boy.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged warnings: mentions of physical/sexual abuse

Making it look like a robbery would be easy. He just had to commit a robbery, which wasn’t something he was unfamiliar with. He just had to make it look right. Stealing didn't register on the list of sins that made him uncomfortable, albeit a short list, and even less so when the mark deserved it.

He slipped the carton of cigs from his back pocket, his hands shaking as he lit up. The cool breeze of the night rushed over him. It’d been a long time since he’d used the bat in the trunk. Nerves shot through him, electric, blinding anger he hadn't felt so long that it made him high. He stared down at the ground, taking a drag.

He grabbed up the heavy wood baseball bat in his fist, taking a long puff on his Lucky Lung on the walk back to the house.

Billy Boy.

If he got caught, it was worth it.

First, it was the back window, knocked in with a deafening shatter, glass raining into the living room. He stepped through, heels crunching shards into the floor, his hands steady around the bat as the end dragged across the carpet. He snatched up a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, taking a mouthful that burned all down his throat.

It was anything goes.

Dusty memories he hadn’t touched in decades burst up to the surface like they were unfolding in front of him, the rise and fall of a tenuous friendship that was as destructive as it was frustrating.

They’d always been at odds, fighting, then getting drunk as friends, then fighting again until it eventually tore the band apart and they ran in opposite directions.

Billy Boy had always been wild, feral in a way that even Murdoc couldn’t even match. If he was a loose cannon, Billy was a rabid dog. His cruelty was only matched by his skill with a six-string and the quickness of his sharp tongue. Rough and loud and pumped up on amphetamines, and when all Murdoc wanted was a line of coke, a tab of ecstasy, and to be let loose on the world, Billy Boy wanted to crack it under his boot. Murdoc was hungry and had something to prove, Billy was ravenous and thought everyone had something to prove to him.

He’d always had an unnerving presence. Murdoc had been twenty-eight at the time when he formed the band up, and Billy barely eighteen. Just a kid, a friend of his drummer’s little brother. But he let him in anyway because his potential was incredible, a perfect match for his own skill. But his ego was unreal, almost as big as his own. He was smooth and bigotted until provoked, and then he was a beast. He was the type to kill something just to watch it die.

And he was a ladies man. It made him sick with rage when they went out to a bar only for him to be passed over for Billy’s long hair and slick confidence. He was younger, cuter, more innocent-looking with that boyish smile. But insane would have been a better descriptor, more interested in playing around than playing music until Murdoc had to crack the whip, and that set him off like nothing else. He went through girls faster than Murdoc ever had, and lured a few out from under him, though he never would have admitted it. Billy bragged about it, throwing it in everyone’s faces till it even irritated Murdoc. And so, unfortunately, he was well aware of Billy’s inclinations. And he was not a gentle man.

He’d been with one of Billy’s exes once, afterwards, and when he’d gotten her undressed, she just shut down, blank and sightless and zoned out. He stopped, got her dressed and a cup of coffee, and she let herself out without saying much of anything at all. High, he thought, as a lot of Billy’s girls had usually been, and he shrugged it off. He knew better now, and was glad he’d at least had enough sense back then to put the brakes on. The look on Angel’s face when he’d tried to take her shirt off… That was the same look. That hundred yard stare that meant they were somewhere else completely.

He knew she must have been holding back with how Bill had been, or he had smoothed out in his older age. But he doubted it was the latter. All he could see was his hands clamped around her throat, coughing that sick, irritating laugh of his until her neck went black and blue and her eyes went wet with tears.

"He had a… look in his eye. I can't explain it," she'd told him on the drive back. "Something that I admired, at first, but the longer it looked at me, the more afraid of it I became."

She shrunk into herself, laughing nervously.

"Sorry, that probably doesn't make any sense." She leaned on her arms out the open window as he drove. "He had this strange little smile, that you could see something dangerous behind it. But I thought I'd be fine. I felt like he was so high above me and he was reaching down to pull me up. Mm… well, he was just reaching to grab me. He wanted me to be his tough girl, a hard metal singer he could show off. I looked the part, I sounded the part. But I could only take up as much space as he'd let me. I was too soft to keep up the act."

“Bastard,” he snarled, cracking the end of the bat into the TV screen, knocking it onto the floor.

All of it went—his guitar, recording equipment, amps, computer, lamps, anything in eyesight. The bat flew down hard from his hand, cracking hard off anything in arm's reach, Murdoc's face a blank, unreadable slate—unblinking and unflinching. He was in a trance. He should've beat the shit out of him years ago. He'd done more than enough to deserve it.

Maybe if he'd done it earlier, Billy would've crawled back into the hole he crept out of.

He opened the refrigerator door wide to let everything rot in the heat, and slipped open the drawer beside the sink, taking the rest of the cinnamon toothpicks for himself. The blade of his knife sunk into the upholstery of the couch and slit open a wide gash across the middle. He kicked the table over on his way to the stairs.

He pulled out the drawers in his bedroom, spilling them out on the floor, tearing through them for anything that looked like it didn't belong. The closet was open a crack and he ran through it, pulling shit off the hangers. He grabbed Billy's leather jacket, sliding into it. Too big. Billy had always been bigger than him, and that had always pissed him off. A cruel little smile twisted over his lips. At least he knew he was bigger where it counted, with the face Angel had made.

The nightstand toppled to the floor under his foot, the drawer spitting out. A cigar box split open with a hard crack. He turned it over with his boot: a knife, a wad of cash, and a baggie of pills. A bonus for him. He grabbed up the bag, shaking it to sort through. Amphetamines, just like the old days. All of it went into his pocket.

A pair of diamond studs grabbed his eye on the way out, resting on the top of the dresser. He rolled them around in his palm. He couldn't tell if they were Billy's or not, but either way, they were worth something. He stuffed them into his back pocket with his cigarettes.

The bathroom mirror already had a deep crack running straight down the middle. He stared at himself, smoke leaking out from the gaps in his teeth, his face split in two. It burst into a spiderweb with one swing of the bat, glass raining into the sink. It cracked under his boot, his breaths ragged. He shook all over with rage and excitement. He wanted to rip it all apart. Billy deserved it.

He leaned down into the bathtub, plugging the drain, and spun both knobs till water gushed out from the faucet. He sifted through the glass in the sink, cutting up his fingers as he stuffed a washcloth into the drain, and turned on the water. What he hadn't destroyed with his hand, a good flooding would take care of.

He took one more healthy swig of the whiskey and whipped it at the wall, shattering glass and liquor all over the kitchen. A fitting end. It made up for all the bar tabs Billy left on Murdoc's dime. He stepped through the same shattered hole he'd made on the way in, carting armfulls of shit to the trunk of his car till it was full and couldn't fit one more shattered thing.

Billy must've been a routine nuisance in the neighborhood, because no one came. No neighbors, no cops, nothing.

He flicked his lighter over and over with his thumb, staring at the back door, the urge to light it all up coursing uncontrollably through him. He could just burn it all down. The flame clicked out, the lighter sliding back into his pocket.

She wouldn't want that. She wouldn't have wanted him to do what he'd already done, but that couldn't be helped. It was a shame Billy's car was gone, he would have loved to smash out his windshield. The knife in his boot itched to sink into his tires. The idea of waiting till he got back rattled around in his skull. But he didn't know how far he couldn't push it before Angel killed him herself.

The cigarette ground out under his boot, the trunk slamming shut. Gravel spit out from under the tires as he sped out, leaving the ruins of Billy's house behind in the dark. This was a night he'd be able to sleep.

  
  


He parked the car in front of Fran's flat, gripping the steering wheel. His fingers were riddled with stinging, bleeding cuts, and he was shaking.

What was he going to say? No matter how the conversation ran in his head, it inevitably ended with a hard slap to the face. He rubbed the steering wheel, breaking the cuts open and they stung with sharp, biting pains that eased his nerves for a second. There was no way around it, he'd just have to come out and say it and take the hit.

But he couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't tell her he knew Billy. He couldn't take the look on her face.

He dug his nails into his skin and got out of the car before he could change his mind.

"Where did you get off to?" Fran called from the window, leaning on her arm.

His stomach roiled. He wasn't sure what to say to her.

"Ah… had a friend nearby, gave him a little visit."

She stared at him, then disappeared. The door flew open. Fran was still in her underwear, waving over her shoulder as he came in, his eyes fixed on her scrawny ass as she walked into the kitchen.

"Sent Angie out for coffee, so you're out of luck till then."

He glanced up at the clock.

"Youuu sent her out at 6?"

"She never went to sleep," she muttered, digging around in the fridge. "I had to give her something to do, she was driving me nuts."

She shut the door and looked back at him, swinging herself up on the counter.

"So, you don't seem like a total idiot..."

"Oh, thanks."

"You know she likes you, right?"

A laugh burst out of him.

"Are we in primary school?"

"Just shut up," she groaned.

He shut up.

"You be gentle with her, alright? Or I'll break both your arms."

He let out a nervous chuckle.

"Are all of her friends as violent as her?"

"Just the good ones."

Her gaze fell down to the cuts all over his hands.

"... Where's you get those?"

He opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say, anything but the truth.

"Fran, I _ hate _getting coffee for you. It always makes the barista's lives a living hell," Angel called, shutting the door behind her.

She stopped still when she saw the both of them

"Hey."

A bullet pierced him, nearly doubling him over when her eyes flicked up to meet his. He felt sick. He had to turn away, feigning a cough to shake himself.

_ Why do you want to be around me? I’m the same. _

That thought flashed into his head and made him flush with anger. Maybe she had a complex, some fixation. Maybe she wanted to grab onto him because he reminded her of Billy. His whole body clenched at the thought.

All at once he wanted to be a thousand miles from her and also grab her by the waist and fuck her till she couldn’t even remember Billy’s name anymore. She was too good a specimen to still be squeezed under Billy's boot, to let that shackle hang around her neck. He was ten thousand times the man as Billy, and he wanted her to forget he was ever born.

He rubbed his fingers together and jerked his head at the door.

"You, come on. Got something to show you."

Her smile fell and she set the drink carrier down, her chest tight.

"What's with the midnight disappearing act?" she called after him as he walked to his car.

He was shakily lighting a cigarette, terrified and ecstatic to show her what he'd done.

"Had to take care of something."

He played with the keys in his hands, leaning against the trunk of his car.

"You _ do _ know that since you only took the Telecaster that your boy's gonna know you were there eventually?"

Angel's stomach twisted and she looked away. It was part of why she couldn't sleep. She paced Fran's room, wondering if she'd made a horrible mistake. She even considered going and putting the guitar back, just to keep him from finding out. And when she went to the living room to talk to Murdoc, he was gone.

"Ex-boy," she said in a small voice.

"So, I had to rectify your grievous oversight."

Angel's mind snapped and went completely blank. He could see the lights go out behind her eyes as she tried to process what he said.

"You… went back?"

"Don't look so tense," he muttered. "I made it look good. Broke the window, only bothered the valuables. That way the guitar going missing won't look all that out of place."

Angel finally blinked.

"He'll… think he's been robbed."

“Oh, don’t worry, he _ absolutely _ will think he’s been robbed.” He popped open the trunk, backing up for her to see. “Because he was.”

The trunk was a junkyard of guitar strings, splintered wood, and cracked plastic. His Gibson, his amps, his laptop, all sat smashed up to pieces inside.

“The rest of his place looks just like this. In retrospect, I probably should have nabbed a few things intact to haulk them around, but I got a little too into my work.”

Her heart stopped in her chest.

She wanted to slap him.

She wanted to kiss him.

He stared at her open mouth, bracing himself. But she was rolling in shock and nothing came out. He gripped onto the trunk, looking away, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion.

“I, uh... did get these, though. Didn’t know if they were yours, but either way, they are now.”

He dipped his hand into his pocket and grasped her loose wrist, letting two large diamond studs roll out into her palm.

Her voice was quiet.

"...These were Billy's."

She rolled them around, staring, hundreds of images of herself reflected in the facets. He took a long drag, blowing over his shoulder.

"They're not small, you could pawn 'em," he said, afraid that if he stopped talking she'd snap out of her trance and beat his ass. "Get two hundred for the pair, at least."

Angel didn't say anything, taking one earring in each hand.

"Gaudy things. Thought for sure they'd be yours, haha," he laughed nervously.

Her eyes finally snapped up at him and he flinched.

She turned and threw the one in her right hand as far as she could. It sparkled in the early light and blinked out of existence.

The cigarette dangled from his lip as she turned back around.

"That one was for me," she muttered.

She walked up to him, pulling the back off the other stud. He watched her, silent and stiff. She slid the post through the old hole in his earlobe, her fingertips dragging down the side of his neck.

"That one's for you."

He stared at her, his eyes searching her face. He was shocked she even noticed his ears were pierced. A thin smile spread across her face.

"Looks better on you."

He cleared his throat, grinding out the butt of his cig.

"You just threw a hundred pounds away."

"I guess so."

Her jaw stiffened and he prepared himself for a reaming.

"Murdoc?"

"Hm?"

"... Thank you."

The relief that washed over him was almost nauseating.

"... Well… I never pass up the opportunity to fuck up someone's day. It's my favorite thing to do."

Her hands curled up. She was staring at him, taking him in. She wanted to jump on him, hold him close to her. What he did was horrid, reckless, evil. It was going to get one of them in trouble, for sure. Billy was going to be enraged, more volatile than ever. It might even make him snap. But she couldn't find the fear to care. She wanted to take his face in her hands and kiss him.

She realized, suddenly, that he wasn't looking at her, his face falling.

A black SUV was pulling up, glossy and spotless and intimidating. It looked like the CIA was coming for them.

Angel glanced up at his paling face.

“Murdoc?”

“Fuck," he spat.

The SUV idled across the street, it's windows tinted just enough so that she couldn't make out who was inside.

Murdoc shut the trunk in a hurry, his eyes darting back at her. He was cornered. With no escape.

A woman with a tight, clean pixie cut stepped out of the SUV. She was short—shorter than Murdoc—and she looked angry.

He walked straight up to her and slapped on a big fake smile.

"Len—"

"Get in the car. They want to see you. Now."

He glanced between the two of them.

"I… haven't got—"

"It’s too late for excuses. You better show them something. Anything."

“I’ve got my own car.”

“We’ll get someone to pick it up, give me your keys.”

He clenched his jaw.

"This is low, even for you," he muttered.

"It's not coming from me." She snapped. "You know I love cracking the whip on you, but this is going to make me look bad too, thanks to your little sabbatical. I'm guessing someone got sore because you wiggled around your contract."

“And if I don’t go?”

“Don’t make me force you. I will if I have to.”

"Lennie, not in front of Ange'. Wait till we're alone to get rough with me."

He moved to run his fingers under her chin and she caught his wrist in her small hand.

"If you touch me, I'll break every finger you've got."

He smiled, trying to wrench his hand out of her grasp.

“Alright, alright. Christ, Len, you’ve got a wrestler’s grip.”

She let go, turning on her heel to slide into the passenger seat. He grunted, conceding with a long sigh. He waved at Angel.

"You too, love. Go grab your shit."

"... I'm coming?"

"I need a witness, just in case they try to spirit me away. I think you'd put up enough of a struggle that I could probably escape."

"I honestly can't tell if you're being serious or not.”

She hesitated, then turned to hurry into Fran’s apartment.

The inside of the car looked like a movie prop, all black leather, all spotless. She clutched her cup of coffee tight, and Murdoc popped the lid off his in a second—double-shot espresso with five sugars. He could have kissed her on the lips. Lenore glared back at the both of them.

“Lenore this is Ange’, Ange’ this is the Devil.”

“Making a lot of jokes for someone who’s about to get their arse torn open,” the woman snapped.

“If only,” he muttered.

"Nice jewelry," Lenore scoffed, pointing at his ear.

"Thank you," he said in an overly sweet voice, and he slid his hand into Angel's thigh, giving her a pat. "It was a gift."

She spun to stare at him, nerves eating at her.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to go demo my album," he said in an irritated tone, his fingers drumming against his leg.

"But… we don't—"

“I’m aware.”

He dug around in his pocket, lighting up another cigarette as he cracked the window.

"You can't smoke in here," Lenore muttered. “It’s a rental.”

"What're you gonna do, Lennie? Come back here and wrestle it outta my hand? Like to see you try, this one's got a temper," he said, jabbing Angel in the side with his elbow. "Seen her tear a man's head clear off."

Angel shot him a look that he ignored. He let out a long stream of smoke, his leg bouncing uncontrollably.

“How’d you find me? I didn’t use my card.”

“I turned on the GPS on your phone.”

He rolled his head, scoffing.

“I’ll just have to bring a burner next time.”

“Keep talking like that and they’ll put an ankle bracelet on you.”

He went silent, staring out the window with his head resting on the glass. Rain began to patter down from the grey sky, punctuating the uncomfortable silence of Angel and Lenore staring at each other.

Angel looked over at him, and her eyes drifted down to his hand on his leg, riddled with fresh, open red cuts. She gripped her cup and leaned in.

“Murdoc, what are we going to do?”

"Shut up," he snapped, then glanced back at her from the corner of his eye, adding "I’m thinking."

Lenore clicked her tongue.

"Unless you can compose a symphony in three hours, you're shit out of luck."

"What part of '_ shut up _' eluded you? You're included in the shutting-up," he said, turning to her.

She rolled her eyes. He snapped his fingers at Angel, gesturing wildly at her bag.

"Give me the… the…"

She dove into it, pulling out the notebook and he snatched it away quickly, leaning forward to grab the pen waiting in Lenore's hand.

"Can't we just do the song we worked on?"

"That's a slow song, it's not going to sell them. I need something punchier, anything catchy. Get them off my back for a minute."

The pen scratched furiously over his notes on the paper, his eyes unblinking.

"Where's the traffic heaviest right about now?"

Lenore blinked, her brow crumpling.

"Uh… that'd probably be—"

"Great," he cut her off. "That's the route I'd like."

She stared at him.

"You honestly think you're going to come up with something right now when you've had weeks to play with?"

"I won't if you don't shut up and go the long way." He bit down on the end of the pen. "Just… buy me a little more time."

She stared at him, then relented with a sigh and nodded at the driver.

"I need… a tune for this," he said, shoving the notebook in Angel’s face.

Her mouth hung open, her eyes darting over the page of scribbled words and scratched-out lines.

"That's… how am I supposed to—"

"Think of this as your admittance test. If you pass, you get to keep your job! You fail, I go back to jail and you get to go back to busking at the train station. So, no pressure."

He jabbed the pen at her, and she took it with a shaking hand.

"Give me anything."

"Alright," she squeaked. "I-I have some songs I never released or gave to Billy, I could take a tune from one of those—"

"Great, write it down."

They pulled up to an unassuming grey-brick building and Lenore got out in a hurry. It looked like a cinder block, Angel thought. Nothing like what she expected. All that revealed what might be inside was a little placard beside the plain black door that read "_ EMI Manchester Recording Studio _". Murdoc dragged his feet, his eyes darting over the scribbles of notes all over the pages they filled in the car, barely paying attention to anything around him. Angel walked behind him with her bag on her shoulder, glancing back at the SUV, wondering if it was too late to back out.

The inside was like walking into a different world. The floor was immaculate polished wood, the lobby decked out in high-end decor that made her tense up. Photos of people hung all along one wall, and she recognized some of the faces. Real stars, real celebrities. She choked down her anxiety. Murdoc wasn’t even looking up, his lips moving silently.

“You wait here,” Lenore spat at him, pointing at the couch. “I don’t need you opening your fat mouth and digging yourself into deeper shit than you already have. Don’t move.”

“Well, do you want me to sit, or do you want me to not move?” he asked with a shrug.

She thought the woman was going to burst a blood vessel. Angel watched Lenore push right past him and threw open the door to a recording suite, walking right up to a group of men gathered around the mixing board. Angel watched her through the window of the door. Lenore’s muffled voice was impossible to make out, but she looked every bit as angry as she did before.

"She really hates you," she said quietly to him.

He scratched the growing stubble along his cheek, looking down at his boots.

"Ah, well, she might have the right to. She _ did _ make me feel tall, and I did like that for a bit."

Angel's spine straightened, her eyes darting over to the little brunette.

"To be fair," he grunted, stretching out his back, "I generally _ don't _ make a habit of calling people back. It's not like I singled her out. She should have known better than to sleep with a client. Old news, though, she was still new back in 2002. She’s a real icy bitch, now. She learned," he laughed.

She didn't know why she was surprised. It was surprisingly difficult to wrestle her jealousy. Jealousy she knew she had no right to feel. She turned away to make it look like she was browsing the pictures on the wall. Murdoc flopped down on the couch, leaning over the table.

"Though, maybe you should thank her. She's the one who thought I needed an assistant in the first place."

She stole a glance at Lenore through the window from the corner of her eye, silent.

He was scribbling madly, copying down their notes on a page for her, and she came to sit beside him, staring at the movement of his own and trying not to be crushed under the weight of her apprehension.

"Murdoc… thank you for what you did."

"Don't mention it," he mumbled, then looked up at her. "Seriously, don't mention it. Lenore will castrate me if she finds out I've been kicking up more shit."

A little sly smile curled her lips as she looked back down at her hands.

"Well, don't need them if you're already fixed, right?"

He wiggled his finger at her.

"Ooh, smart-arse. That's what she said, too."

The door flew open and Lenore poked her head out.

“Get in here,” she snapped.

Murdoc's cheery attitude melted away and got up silently, walking to the door with Angel trailing behind, unsure if she was supposed to come too, or not.

The group of men were staring at them as they walked in, all in suits, all looking a mix of irritated and impatient.

“Murdoc, you know Rick,” Lenore said in a stern voice.

Murdoc was shrinking by the second, his eyes wide.

“We’ve met,” he said in a thin voice.

Angel tensed. If Murdoc was worried, then she knew she should be terrified. Lenore gestured to her.

“Rick, this is Angela, she’s Murdoc’s... “ Her face crumpled up as she searched for something to say, and what came out was, “...accomplice."

Which Angel thought was probably the most accurate description of who she was to him

"Angela this is Rick Hughes, Director of Acquisitions.”

He was a tall man, bald as a cue ball and had sunken eyes that bored into her when he shifted his attention from the cowering Murdoc.

“New face.”

“She’s just assisting with the demos,” Lenore assured. “Not a permanent hire.”

Rick said nothing, making Angel squirm.

“N-nice to meet you,” she managed.

He gave her a short nod, then glanced back to his real target.

“You’ve been making us wait, Niccals. We’ve been more than generous with the extended deadline we’ve given you. I’m sure you have something to show for it by now.”

Murdoc looked nervous, but he couldn’t keep his tongue in his head.

"Unfortunately, you grabbed me and my colleague here up before we could even get ourselves together. I don't have the tapes on me. That's what impatience gets you. So, I guess we'll have to do it live. Not going to be as good, but it's what you're getting for rushing me."

Lenore vibrated in place. Angel was dead on impact when he said “we”. He expected her to play a song they just wrote and never played before. Right here, right now. With his head on the block, and hers right behind.

Rick snorted, looking down at him.

“If you waste my time, you know where you’re going to end up.”

The color was draining out of Murdoc’s face, but he had a bulldog grip on his ego and couldn’t shut up.

“You’re the one wasting my time,” he muttered, walking over to the mixing board.

Angel looked from Lenore to Rick, the both of them muttering together, and she slipped away from the group quietly, following him.

Everything sounded muffled and distant, the blood rushing in her head drowning out everything else. Murdoc was leaning over the shoulder of the man at the board. He was pointing at the notebook, desperately trying to explain something to the man, but she couldn't hear him. She couldn’t hear much of anything outside her own body and her looping fear of royaly fucking up. She felt sick.

A woman pushed a Les Paul into her hands, asking her something that she just nodded to, and he looped the strap of a cherry-red bass around his neck, looking pale and nervous. And that made Angel nervous. Her sweating hand gripped hard on the neck of the loaner guitar.

"You look scared," she whispered, her voice shaking.

His head shot up and he forced a thin, tense smile.

"Course not. Why would I be? Done this a thousand times. Don't project your stage-fright onto me, love," he said, prodding his nail into her side.

"Why do you look so nervous, then?"

He clenched up, trying to hold onto his slipping grin.

"I'm not usually the one doing the vocals."

She forced a shaky smile.

"I like your voice."

He snorted, rubbing his fingers together.

"I haven't done this without them. It doesn't feel… right," he muttered.

"I haven't done this without Billy."

They stared at each other.

"Something new and horrifying for the both of us. At least we're scared together," she said with a short laugh. "If we fuck up, I'll visit you in jail."

"Thanks."

Angel sucked in a long breath, looking through the window at the recording room.

"Just like at the bar, right?"

His teeth clenched.

“Yeah.”

Lenore hissed at the both of them.

"Will the two of you stop whispering like schoolgirls and get the fuck in there?"

The recording room was just that—an entire room. She’d never been in anything like it. Any studio she’d been able to scrape up the money to use was always a cramped little booth, barely big enough to move around in. But this was luxury. It did nothing to ease her nerves.

They’d set up two mics with stands for them, and an assistant came over to plug in their guitars, but Murdoc swatted them away.

“Christ, crawl outta my arse, would ya?”

Angel came up close to the mic, trying not to look at the window and the eyes that were watching from behind it. The last time she was in a studio was when she recorded Billy's album. And those memories didn't help as they popped unprompted. Her heart throbbed hard in her chest and her body went slick with cold sweats. She tried to only look at the page in front of her.

Murdoc pulled his headphones on, playing with the dials on his bass and adjusting the mic. When he glanced up at her, she was already looking at him. They took deep, trembling breaths.

The snapping snare beat that pulsed through her headphones made her jump. She could hear Murdoc's bass low and quick in her head, her eyes watching his fingers move over the strings. She remembered herself, and jumped in, trying to keep her focus on her guitar. It should have been easy, she wrote it, and it was a simple beat. But it was difficult to concentrate when he opened his mouth.

His voice was scratchy, rough from years of smoking, but not unpleasant. She stared, her breaths catching hard in her throat.

"_I__f I could take her down and run, then I'd call her. 'Cause she's standing drama, she knows I'll call her. She's getting on the sun and then she order. Imagine me. I don't take her number, just don't think I'd call her. I take her down to somewhere drab and naughty. Clear my system, I don't need no other. This is my persona, secret lover." _

He was looking up at her from under his hair, his stare intense and hard. It made her swallow against her dry throat.

"_Nothing to be justified, here. Just one thing, you should feel nada. I know she lies alone, she's my caller. I sense her in my mind, she's my collar._"

His bass throbbed in her skull. She sucked in a long breath and opened her mouth, her sweaty fingers slipping on the strings.

“_I’m yellow, he was blue. It was nothing that he could hide. We made a green meadow whenever we would collide. I died a thousand times. I did what I had to do. That’s just how it goes. I’m still coming back to you._”

They were both rooted to the spot when the beat died away, leaving them in crushing silence. Neither of them wanted to look out the window, locking onto each other instead. The knock at the door clenched Murdoc’s hands into claws around the bass. He slipped the headphones off and unplugged himself, walking right past Angel without a word. He set the guitar in a stand by the door and gripped the handle hard.

Lenore was standing in the doorway, blocking them. He stared down at her, his pupils pinpoints and his hands shaking.

"Well…?"

"It's not finished," she muttered quietly.

"I told you that," he grunted.

She backed up to let them pass, her face stricken with worry. Rick had his arms folded.

"That better not be the vocals for it. The other kid's the one that sells, not you. You’re dispensable."

Murdoc's whole body went rigid and tense, and he struggled to wrangle the words that were starting to leave his mouth.

"He's…"

"We'll get him," Lenore snapped, cutting him off. “We’re working on it.”

Murdoc stared down at the floor, his hands curling up into fists.

"You better. He's no singer." Rick jabbed a finger at Angel. "She's not bad."

She straightened up, her chest clenching tight. Words spilled out of her before she could even think to stop herself.

"I think he's just fine," she said in a cold voice. "If it were my album, I'd keep him on."

Murdoc's eyes flicked up from under his hair, from Angel's surprised gape to Lenore's tense jaw. Horror gripped her. Rick coughed a laugh.

"Cheeky," he snorted. "At least she's got a spine," he said, giving Murdoc a hard stare. "Get your shit together. I want something new soon."

He just nodded, watching Rick as he turned and left the room, taking his posse with him, only leaving Lenore behind. Angel leaned into him, her voice low.

"Is… that good?"

"He didn't have security come in to grab me up, so yeah, I'd say that's good."

She could see the tension fall off of him, his eyes fluttering with a sigh. He rubbed his temples, glancing over at Lenore, who was furiously texting as fast as she could.

"This room booked later?" he said, walking over to the computer.

"Not that I saw on the schedule," she mumbled, barely listening to him.

Murdoc jerked his head toward the window.

"Alright, get back in."

Angel blinked, shaking her head.

"What, we're doing it again?"

"Not we. Just you," he said, taking the seat at the mixing board. "I want you to play the song you wrote."

She blanked.

"What, the… one I wrote at Fran's place?"

"Yep. Get to it."

"Why?"

He groaned, rolling his eyes.

"I'm giving you the opportunity to use all this equipment with all these important-looking dials and buttons and you're questioning it?" He rolled himself closer to the board. “Do you want a clean recording or not?”

The two of them watched her setting herself up in the room, Murdoc's fingers drumming loud along the desk. Lenore came up beside him, crossing her arms.

"What are you doing?"

"Call it a side project."

Angel dragged a stool over, a steel string guitar hanging around her shoulder. He leaned forward.

"Whenever you're ready, love. Pretend like I'm not even here."

A long breath left him as he watched her settle.

"They said I had to produce an album. They didn't say it had to be Gorillaz."

Lenore looked down at him.

“You’re giving up?”

“No, but I’m running out of time. It takes us a year or more to make an album and we don’t even have them rounded up yet. I need to be… realistic,” he muttered. “Or I’ll be making my next album from the inside of a cell. Not that I haven’t tried that before. Tends to opt me out of the important decisions, though.”

"It’s not like you to do something without your name plastered all over it."

"It's a good investment. Besides, I like betting on underdogs. That's how you win big. Haven’t you ever been to the track?"

Years of dealing with Murdoc’s bullshit made Lenore impervious to his distractions. When he tried to babble, she bit down and refused to let go.

"You've never been on this side of the glass without barging into the booth yourself. But you're tight in your seat, right now."

His lip curled up in a sneer that he doused quick with a grunt, leaning back in the chair.

"I'm not an idiot. I know I can't make an album on my own. I... need the others." His eyes were locked on Angel, his long nails drumming along the board. "But she might be my ticket for now. Buy me some time. Producing is producing. As long as they get an album, my contract is fulfilled. They should have been more specific, that’s not my problem."

Lenore gave him a skeptical look.

"I guess. Seems like a favor for her, more than anything else. You got a soft spot for her?"

He snorted.

"She stuck up for you. That's rare. Usually people can't wait to throw you to the wolves and watch you get set on your ass."

"I know a business opportunity when I see one. If she thinks it's something else, that's not really my problem."

"You fucked her, didn't you?"

He stuck the end of Lenore's pen in his jaws, avoiding looking at her.

"... Not exactly."

She kept quiet, her eyes turning to the girl in the booth. Murdoc chewed on the pen, wiggling it between his teeth, leaving deep gouges in the plastic. Angel's eyes were closed, her lips nearly brushing the mic as her fingers moved over the strings. His head leaned heavy in his hand as he watched her.

"She's good," she admitted.

"Told you. You want in? Better chance of her getting signed if she's got someone to vouch. You know the bean-counters love you."

"I'll think about it. Give me back my pen."

He dragged his tongue over it before offering it up. She took it, wiping it on his shirt, and stuck it back in her bag. He rested his chin on his folded hands.

"Another sabbatical might be on the horizon," he muttered.

"I know you like to sequester yourself for weeks at a time, but they're going to want something in their hands. They want their eyes on you. They don't trust you, and rightfully so. Last time you got in deep shit you literally locked yourself up on a deserted island. They’ll want a leash on you."

"That's never stopped me before. Make something up. I'll send you what we get when we get it."

Lenore could sense this was an argument she wasn’t going to win without bloodshed, and she was already spent for the day.

"I hope you know what you're doing, or else you're wasting all your time."

"Love, you know better than anyone that I_ never _know what the fuck I'm doing. But I'm the luckiest bastard you'll ever meet."

"Unfortunately." She gave him a hard look. "If you're going to put all your eggs in one basket, try not to put _ your _ eggs in _ her _ basket. Every time you hook up, you either fuck it all up or get bored and pitch them. Do yourself a favor for once and keep your hands to yourself. If you scare her off, you might as well zip up your orange jumpsuit."

He clapped his hands together.

"I'll stay as chaste as a Catholic school girl."

"They're nymphos."

"Oops, you got me."

"Just be careful."

His smirk faded as he turned back to the window, his eyes distant.

"I will."

She turned on her heel, shaking her head. The sound of the girl’s voice echoed in her mind. Lenore turned back, her hand on the doorframe.

“What is it you like about her?”

Murdoc didn’t break his stare.

“... She’s new. She doesn’t know me. It’s nice to be seen as a blank slate every once in a while, without all the baggage.”

“You mean without knowing all the shit you’ve put everyone else through?”

He glanced back at her, his eyes fading down to the floor.

“Just cause I fuck up all the time doesn’t mean I like dragging that cross around.”

“Cross,” she snorted. “You’re not Jesus. Judas, more like.”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“You do all that shit to yourself, anyway. Cut the pity party.”

“Haven’t done it to her, yet.”

“Guess that’ll make it more gratifying when you do.”

“Guess it will. You know destroying people is my hobby.”

“Too well.”

His vision unfocused, everything becoming a blur as he bit down hard on his nails till they snapped in his teeth.

“You think she can take it?”

The silence made him turn. Lenore was gone.

He turned back around, flicking on the intercom.

“Do it again.”


	16. Chapter 16

The SUV was still waiting for them when Murdoc finally wrapped things up. He dumped himself into the backseat and let out a long groan, laying flat on his back. He spread his legs out over Angel's lap, covering his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'm just… I'm just gonna shut my eyes… for a second…"

She watched him silently, her brain scrambled and exhausted and buzzing with a thousand thoughts she couldn't process. His hands were red with cuts and he looked completely drained. She couldn't imagine what the inside of Billy's place must have looked like with the state of him.

Her stomach flipped. He'd had the courage to do what she'd wanted to for almost a year. Courage, she thought, maybe wasn't the right word. Recklessness. Complete abandonment of forethought. She thought about things until her brain went numb and it left her too paralyzed to make a choice. She strayed on the safe side, always. But his boot was on the gas all the time. That was a horrible way to live, but part of her couldn't help but be jealous. She couldn't imagine living like that, just doing whatever she wanted without thinking or caring about the consequences. Maybe, she thought, that was one of the few things she could learn from him—how to break out of her own head. Though he wasn't someone who should have been teaching anyone anything.

She watched him all spread out, open-mouthed and limp, sound asleep by the time they hit traffic. Angel rested her hands on his legs and watched the cars through the rain on the window. And for a moment, she let all of her thoughts go, and her eyes slipped closed.

The phone jolted him awake. Murdoc twisted himself up in the sheets, stripped down to his underwear, and pressed the phone to his ear.

"What?" he mumbled.

Lenore was talking a mile a minute on the other end. He rubbed his face, barely focusing.

"... Yes, I _ was _asleep, until you put a stop to that... What time is it? … Christ. … Fine, fine, alright. Alright, I'll be there."

He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face, his clothes from yesterday tossed all over the floor.

His fingers ran over something that made him stop. He felt his ear, grinning. Billy would've come home, by now. He wished he was a fly on the wall to see that meltdown.

Lenore knew Murdoc better than probably anyone did. She certainly was the one who worked with him the longest. She stuck because she bulldogged him like nobody else and was one of the few people on earth that he would listen to. She was one of the only people he kept in contact with when he holed himself up on that island, and she was the only one he trusted—by any measure—to deal with his affairs. They'd tried to replace her, once. The label thought she was cow-towing too much to his ridiculous antics and requests. The new guy they brought in lasted one week before they were begging for her back; Murdoc had somehow stolen his phone and wallet and lured him onto a slow boat to Singapore before ditching the label to hide out in Ibiza for a month. Lenore had to fish Murdoc out of a houseboat moored in a lagoon where he'd nearly drowned himself in rum, Frigola, and ceviche.

Murdoc tortured her as much as anyone else, but the difference was that when he barked, she bit. And he was smart enough—or scared enough—not to rattle her cage too much. She knew how to wrangle him when she needed to. She knew when to leash him and when to let him run. Hold him too loose, he ran wild. Hold him too tight and he'd degrade into an inconsolable mess. She knew his tics, his routines, the way his twisted brain worked as much as anyone could.

And she knew the only way to get him to show up for a meeting was to ply him with liquor.

“Two drinks,” she said, not looking up from her laptop as he slid into the booth across from her.

“Lennie!” he whined.

“It’s that or no drinks, take your pick.”

He grumbled, ditching her to stalk over to the bar.

She only ever bothered to meet him in hotel bars. Restaurants made him act out, coffee shops were too quiet, dive bars were too loud. Hotel bars were the only safe place to make sure he didn’t make too big of an ass of himself, or give her the slip.

“I wanted to talk about your accomplice,” she said when he slunk back with two drinks in tow. “That’s not what I meant by '_ two drinks _'.”

“You should be more specific next time, then.”

"And when are you going to take that gaudy thing out of your ear?"

He fondled the back of the diamond stud, snickering.

"Never, since it irritates you. You're lucky it's not a matching set."

She stared at him rubbing her face 

“Were you listening to me at all?”

“Yeah, yeah, you want to talk about Ange’. _ My _ little diamond in the rough,” he said with a chuckle, lifting drink number one to his lips. “So did I sell you on her?”

“Maybe. I’m still skeptical as to why you’re pushing her on me, but if it makes an album appear in your hand, it’s in my best interest to at least consider it. Has she been signed with a label before?”

“Er… don’t know.”

“Has she even been in a band before?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

Lenore shrugged at him.

“Care to share?”

“She left on bad terms, let’s just leave it at that.”

“Great. Good start.”

“Look, you don’t have to like her. Just sign her. I’ll produce it, I’ll write. Just set me up so I can slip out of this before I end up in cuffs again. And not the fun kind. She can sell.”

"Since when do you care about other people's success?"

He bit down on his nail, snapping it between his teeth.

"Because _ my _ success rides on it. I will do anything to keep from going back in the slammer. You know I'd never do this unless it benefited me the most. My freedom's worth more than her big break. I don't care if you have to make a bad deal, I don’t care what the terms are, just get her in."

She let out a long breath and closed her eyes.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Her long red nails went back to clacking against her keyboard.

"Now that you've got her in your claws, you gonna lock her up in your basement? Imprisoning your bandmates is par for the course, now.”

"No," he said, his chin in his hand as he leaned on the window, spinning the glass tumbler on the tabletop.

"Well that's better than it could be, then. She's living with you, though?"

"No."

She stopped, watching the side of his face as he watched the rain.

"You bring her over?"

He glanced over, his brow pulling together. He shrugged.

"Sometimes."

"And she comes to you by herself? Without asking?"

His mind drifted to her coming back to his house, for the second time in one night.

"Sometimes," he said in an almost sigh.

Lenore scoffed.

"You… do realize you don't have friends, right? You've got acquaintances, people that associate with you, but no friends. You trap your bandmates all in a house together so you can keep an eye on them. But she comes and goes at will. That's… as damn near a friend as I've seen you have."

He slid back to the window.

"She's not my friend."

She raised her eyebrows, glancing back down at her laptop.

“How long has she been working for you, now?”

“Two months? I think. Two and a half? I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his chin, watching the rain picking up.

She scoffed.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t quit by now. Speaking of, we never sorted out what to pay her, or had her sign a contract or anything. I don’t even know what her position is anymore. Is she even still your assistant? Whatever she is, I doubt she’ll stick around much longer as your unpaid intern.”

Murdoc was glued to the window, his jaw tight. Lenore leaned over.

“... Murdoc?”

“I’ve… slipped her some cash.”

She blinked at him.

“How much?”

He didn’t say anything. Lenore braced her hands on the table, getting close to him.

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean _ you don’t know _? A hundred? Two hundred?”

“I think around fifteen-hundred. I guess that doesn’t include the rent.”

“Rent?!”

“I’m… letting her stay in my spare flat.”

“For free?”

He wouldn’t break his stare, his lips tight. She sputtered.

“Why did you pay her with your own money? Why not just have the label pay for it?”

“She needs a visa sponsorship.”

“You—” She lowered her voice. “You’ve been paying her under the table on an expired visa?”

“I didn’t think she’d stick around this long, alright?! So I just never… said anything about it.”

“Jesus Christ, another of your messes I have to clean up. What is wrong with you?”

That was a question she never expected an answer for. He took a huge gulp of his drink.

“So let me get this straight… You gave your flat to a stranger on a visa the first day you met her—which you still pay for—and you gave her an advance. Day one.”

“I… was a little drunk at the time.”

“That's barely an excuse, when are you not?”

He was staring down into his glass, anywhere but at her. She always loved to pick apart his poor decisions and throw them back in his face. She was the only one who could without him losing his mind. She was frightening.

“And then you just kept paying her? With whatever cash you had? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“I was… desperate.”

“I can tell.”

“Lennie,” he said, rubbing his fingers together in an anxious grip. “I don’t think you realize how close to going absolutely insane I was. Started… hearing things again.”

“Like what things?” she said, incredulous.

“I thought… I thought I heard 2D come in the front. More than once. Started getting paranoid. Even the liquor stopped helping after a little while. I could hear him talking at night. And Noods, and Russ. Couldn’t leave the house, then couldn’t go back in the house. Started to see shit, in the dark. Couldn’t sleep, _ can’t _sleep,” he corrected himself. “I just… I needed a warm body to talk to so I could stop talking to myself. I can’t… I can’t take being alone that long, Lennie. You know that.”

She gave him a long look. His eyes were wide, and he looked like he was about to start shaking. She relented, leaning back.

“So you just wanted a thing to torture.”

“I thought she’d be easy to push around. She was a nervous one,” he muttered. “I didn’t realize she’d push back.”

“And then you fucked her?”

“... I said _ sort of _.”

She rubbed her face, taking a long breath.

“And she’s still here,” she sighed. “Unbelievable. And you say she’s not your friend. You should have paid her fifteen-_ thousand _.”

He drummed his nails along the tabletop.

“Look, are we here to discuss where I put my cock, or are we here to talk business?”

“Never thought you’d want to talk about anything else more than your cock,” she said snidely, looking back down at the screen. “Fine. I’ll let it go, for now. There’s something else I want to know, though.”

“Christ, you press me anymore and I’ll need a third drink.”

“Why’d you get into that fuckin' fight?”

He fingered the glass, looking up at her. His voice eased.

“He got… personal about Noods. I snapped.”

Lenore nodded slowly.

“You shouldn’t pick fights you can’t win, anymore. You’ve gotten weaker in your old age,” she muttered. “He would have beat your ass into the ground. You’d have lost another tooth.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You’re lucky she was willing to go to the mat for you. God knows no one else would have.”

The glass clinked under his fidgeting fingers. She let out a long sigh.

“Bring me three demos. And I’ll give it a shot. No promises.”

He nodded, moving to get up, sliding into his jacket and making for the door. Lenore's eyes slipped closed with a pained sigh and she felt herself start to open her mouth. She hated giving him personal advice, but sometimes she just couldn't help herself.

"Muds," she called. "You should… tread lightly with her. You've got more than a warm body if she's put up with you this long. You don't always have to fuck something up once you've got it."

He stopped stiff and walked back to the table, leaning down above her. Little Lenore made him look towering and impressive, a feature she took great care to ignore.

"What've I got? My band's in the wind, I've got the label breathing down my neck, and I'm an inch away from being thrown back in a cell. So what, exactly, is it that I've got, Lennie?"

"You've got a chance to do something different. Try something else. Make something else. And you've got a person who, for some reason, doesn't hate you. She doesn't _ know _ you, she's not colored by all the horrid shit you've done. You said you liked her because she could give you a clean slate. Well… who would you be if you weren't dragging all that baggage behind you, then? You've got a chance to find out."

He leaned back, his jaw tight.

"You'd make a horrible therapist, Lennie. You're better as a soulless drone. Who d'you represent anyway, the way you're going on, me or her?"

"Both, now. You’re making me invest. Just want that investment to pay off. It won't if you crash and burn and drag her down with you. So maybe try to get along. You might like what comes out if it."

He stood straight, adjusting his jacket.

"You're a fuckin' trip. Still trying to course-correct after all these years. You ever give up?"

"Do you?"

"Fair," he muttered. "See you, Len. And get me an answer."

"Bye, Muds," she mumbled, watching him go.

Murdoc was out of his mind, a lunatic, a vile little man who only cared about himself. And despite years of dealing with endless torture and exhaustion, Lenore still wondered if it was possible for him to ever get along with anyone. Her little pet project, when she wasn't bailing him out.

It was like watching the kid picked last for kickball in primary school, year after year, till the kid was grown and still picked last and still crying over it. He was the bullied kid who bullied the ones he could, thinking maybe someday it would make him feel better. Untrusting that any speck of goodwill was genuine.

She couldn't help but try to guide him down paths that might have panned out well for him. She tried to steer him toward potential partners than might have evened him out. Some stuck longer than others. There'd been a man she had high hopes for, when the band scattered after the second album, and they got along better than anyone else she'd seen. But his volatile trysts always ended the same—with Murdoc going on a hideous bender to see if he could push them away. And he always, always did. And, inevitably, Murdoc would slip one more rung down his ladder-descent into complete madness.

Lenore stopped trying after a while. It was like injecting a lab rat with heroin over and over just to watch it languish in its cage, and it became too sad to watch. She stuck to business after that, and cautioned herself on giving life advice.

She'd been offered other stars to represent. She became well-known for her outstanding ability to deal with the outrageously difficult. And she knew it would mean she'd probably put a few extra years in her life without all the stress, because no one on Earth was more frustrating than Murdoc Niccals. But each time she was made an offer, he somehow ferreted it out, and offered her more money in addition to what the label was already paying her to stay. He clung on by his nails, unwilling to let go. And she never told him he didn't need to. She wouldn't have taken another job, anyway. He was interesting. And she would have gotten bored anywhere else.

She drummed her fingers along her chin, cradling her jaw in her hands.

Angela Johnson. Maybe she could try her hand at match-making one more time.


	17. Chapter 17

"Well, you got your wish. They want to see her."

Murdoc sat alone in his room, laying with his boots kicked over the bed, flicking through a stack of skin mags like a sommelier browsing a wine cellar, his mobile pressed between his shoulder and his ear.

"Fantastic. I'll keep you posted."

"Nope, she's coming with you," Lenore said quickly.

"To what?" he muttered, flipping idly through the pages.

"Do you not remember what time of year it is?"

He dug into his brain, blinking.

"Oh, Christ, Lennie, no."

"It's tonight, did you seriously forget? It's in your schedule. All six of them."

"I've got plans."

"You're both going."

"No, I'm not."

"You're both going, or I'm not going to the mat for her and you can make an album all by yourself by the October deadline."

His jaw tensed.

Angel glanced at Murdoc from the passenger seat, drumming her fingers along the door. He'd been quiet the whole ride.

He hadn't even called, just barged into the flat with his key, nearly kicked down the door, and Angel nearly shit herself.

He corraled her around the room, urging her into her shoes, telling her it was an emergency and she had to leave with him _ right now _. She wasn't sure what emergency put him in a suit, but she was half asleep and confused and easily led down the stairs and into the Colonnade that was double-parked out front.

"Are you ever going to tell me where we're going?"

"You'll know when we get there, won't you?"

"Well, I know for sure I'm not dressed for it, since you look like you're about to give an Oscar speech, or maybe a eulogy, and I'm in house shorts."

"You'll be the hottest one at the funeral."

"You're really not going to tell me?"

"No, because you'd roll out if I did," he mumbled, puffing on the cigarette tucked between his fingers.

Angel leaned out the open window. The night air was warm and humid and it blew her hair around her face. It felt good.

Murdoc glanced at her. She looked… almost happy.

"You don't look as nervous as you should during a kidnapping."

"I'm getting used to it, I guess," she snorted.

He grunted.

"That just means I need to do a better job keeping you on your toes."

Angel quickly realized why she should have been more nervous when he pulled into the drive of a large, stately building with dozens of people milling around out front in suits and dresses. He'd dragged her to some kind of gala, which was the last place she expected Murdoc to want to be.

She was smiling despite the anger boiling up inside her.

"Oh, is this what you meant by rolling out? You meant that you were taking me to a black tie event and I'm in my pajamas."

Murdoc cracked a nervous grin.

"The element of surprise was critical to your agreement to come."

"I didn't agree."

He shut off the engine and got out of the car in a hurry. She buried her face in her hands. What more could possibly happen to her?

Murdoc tossed the keys at the valet, eager to get inside so he could get it over with. But something made him uneasy. He felt watched. And when he glanced around his gaze fell on Bruce, who was eyeing him from the side door.

Bruce was a rep from a competing record label and Lenore hated him. But Murdoc had the sense it was more a love-hate deal. He was a tall man, svelte, with perfect dark skin like a god and a deep voice that could charm anyone. That was the love part. And he was very good at his job, and very good at snapping up talent out from under her. That was the hate part.

Murdoc quickened his pace up to him, leaving Angel behind.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Niccals."

"Ah, that's my father. It's actually 'Dr. Niccals', thank you."

He snorted a laugh.

"I see your little holiday didn't do anything to improve your personality."

"Beach holidays aren't all they're cracked up to be. Think I'll try the Himalayas next time. How's it going, Bruce?"

"Same as ever, drumming up new business." He cracked a thin smile, peering past him. "That the new prospect?"

Murdoc glanced quickly over his shoulder at Angel, who was all at once trying to disappear and make her legs work, suspicion widening his eyes.

"How the hell'd you know that?"

"Word gets around," he said with a smirk. "If you're looking at her, she must be worth something. You're an arse, but you don't waste your time with wash-outs. Gorillaz still carries heavy weight. I'm sure she'll get a lot of interest even if she's just tangentially related."

He slipped a card into Murdoc's hand.

"Tell her to give me a call if she's looking for better terms. I know your lot aren't as generous with newbies as mine are. I like to think of them as… high-risk, high-reward, and I'm a gambling man."

"That's poaching," he muttered.

"You'd do the same," he scoffed. "You'd better get her locked-down before someone else does, if you're worried about it. See you inside."

Murdoc crumpled the card, stuffing it inside his jacket pocket.

"Keep your nose out of it!"

Bruce waved, not looking back.

"What was that about?"

He jumped as Angel appeared behind him.

"Ah… Lenore's ex. I'm very protective."

She gave a small, skeptical nod.

"Are we going inside, or—"

He jammed himself up in the door, blocking her way with his body.

"Ahhh, on second thought, we don't need to go in. Let's go someplace else. Anyplace else."

"Uh… you dragged me out of my house with no bra or make-up on. I could be watching shitty crime drama reruns right now. We're going in."

"Yeah, well, y-you see… there's this jazz club not too far away. I think we should go there instead. Lovely place. Dark place. Hard to find us there."

Angel blinked, shaking her head.

"Murdoc, what the fuck is going on?"

"Muds," a sharp voice called.

He glanced over his shoulder, looking down at Lenore with her hands on her hips. Murdoc straightened up.

"Ah-hah-hah, Lennie—"

"Keys," was the first thing she said, her palm open.

Murdoc growled, tossing his keys into her waiting hand.

"Harpy."

Lenore nodded at Angel, motioning her over.

"Well, you look like you're ready for bed."

"I was."

"He said you'd need something to wear." She waved her hand, eyes rolling. "Don't worry, I picked it."

"Unfortunately," he muttered, his lips curling around another cigarette.

"If you're going to chain-smoke can you at least do it outside?" She jabbed a finger at him. "And don't even _ think _ about trying to slip away. Security already knows not to let you leave."

"Like that's stopped me before."

"I think it's unlikely you'll be able to strip down and cover yourself in cooking oil like last time."

Lenore placed her hand on Angel's hip, guiding her away.

"I've got it hanging up in the powder room, down the left hall. You need company?"

"I'm good, thanks."

Lenore watched her disappear around the corner, then turned on her heel, her shoes clacking loud against the marble floor on her way outside.

"I told you to take that shit out of your ear."

He flicked the diamond stud with his long nail.

"The more you say it, the more I'll wear it. It's hideous and it pisses you off. I love it." His face fell and he leaned from one foot to the other anxiously. "Didn't know you’d throw her into this so quickly."

"I thought this was what you wanted."

He grit his teeth, hunched over on himself.

"Just… not yet."

"You're the one that asked for her to be signed."

"Just… wait till we've got something, alright?"

"I turned water into wine for you, and now you want me to pour it back in the bottle?"

"You and your metaphors. You're quite the thespian," he muttered, peering around the corner. "Just keep the suits away for right now, I'll tell you when I'm ready."

"I already told them she's going to meet with them tonight."

"Well un-tell them. And don't let anyone talk to her."

Lenore crossed her arms, examining him.

"You're afraid she's going to leave."

He shot her a look from the corner of his eye.

"That's ridiculous. Who could turn down all this?" he said, gesturing to all of him.

She shook her finger.

"No, you think if she's got options, she's going to slip through your fingers. You just want to keep her in a cage till the last second."

“Look,” he struggled, moving his hands around nervously. “If she realizes I'm trying to get her signed, then she might realize she could do that herself and just decide to take her business elsewhere. Cut out the middle-man. And I cannot let that happen.”

“You think she’s going to just hook up with another producer and leave you high and dry?”

“Yes.”

“Why would she do that?”

He stared at her, then thrusted his hand out.

“Hi, I’m Murdoc Niccals, I drive away everyone I work with. Want to make an album?”

Lenore sighed.

"Then you should be shoving the pen into her hand instead of being dodgy."

"They might… reassign her. I'm a liability. They already loathe me. They could just stick her with another producer and wash their hands of me for good and sit on Gorillaz royalties for the next fifty years."

"Only if you fuck up too much." Lenore watched the door with him. “She doesn’t seem the type to cut and run, anyway."

“You don’t even know her,” he mumbled, peeking back inside. “She’s taking a long time.”

“She just went in. And I might not know her, but I’m not blind. I see the way she looks at you.”

He glanced back at her and made a strange noise in his throat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. She doesn’t look at me any kind of way.”

“Are you pretending you’re ignorant, or are you really that delusional?”

"Ah, no, I'm just stating the obvious, which seems to elude you."

"You're usually tripping over yourself to run your mouth about how you can charm anyone into bed, and suddenly you're insisting _ this _ girl has no attraction to you."

“_ Look _ ,” he snapped, throwing his hands up in front of him. “You are quickly approaching my last nerve. We fucked around _ once _ . She is _ working _ for me. That’s it. Nothing else. And you’re not going to _ suggest _ it’s anything else, to me or to her. Okay?”

“Fine, have it your way.”

“Thank youuu,” he drawled, tapping his foot.

She turned to him, narrowing her eyes.

“Say her name.”

“What?”

“Say her name,” she said again, emphasizing each word.

His face scrunched up in irritated confusion as he babbled.

“What-wh-why?”

“Just say it.”

“Ange’,” he croaked suspiciously.

She nodded thoughtfully and turned away.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“_ What? _”

“You gave her a nickname.”

He scoffed.

“So? 'Angela' is a mouthful. It’s easier, _ Lennie _.”

“Ah-ah, I wasn’t _ Lennie _ until two years in. You gave her one from the jump.”

“Why are you crawling up my ass about this?!”

“Consider it payback for running out on me.”

“Bitch,” he muttered. "Don't you have anything better to do than torture me?"

"Not till ten o'clock."

He could tell Lenore had picked Angel's outfit.

She was even taller in high heels, wearing tight black pants with a white dress shirt tucked in, and a fitted jacket.

"I thought you were going to get her a slutty little dress," he whined. "What's the point?"

"That she looks good and presentable. She's not a hooker."

"Couldn't hurt to look like one for a bit ," he muttered.

Lenore beckoned her over, motioning for her to bend down. Angel crouched, worried she was going to pop a seam. Everything was tight. Lenore’s fingers worked fast, tying her hair up.

Angel shifted in the shoes. They were also too small, but they were the best-fitting ones Lenore had. When she got in the bathroom, another assistant was already there, thrusting options into her hands. She wondered why Lenore even offered company when she had someone laying in wait for her already. She wasn't the trusting type, she guessed.

Murdoc was already starting to drift away, his interest waning without something to gawk at.

“Muds,” Lenore called, letting go of Angel’s hair as her knees shook from crouching.

He sighed, turning around.

“I’m going to have my eye on you the whole time, got it?”

He gave a mocking salute and made a beeline for the ballroom, focused on pushing his way to the bar on the far side of the room.

Angel moved to follow and Lenore grabbed her sleeve.

“Phone.”

She stared down at the woman and cautiously slipped her phone out of her pocket. Lenore’s thumbs moved like lightning.

“You call me if you get in trouble.”

“Uh… thanks.”

She sighed, handing the phone back.

“Good luck.”

He was stuck to the wall by the time she waded through the crowd, his lips curled back in a sneer and staring daggers at everyone, already halfway through with a vodka cranberry. A man with a tray offered her a glass of champagne and she took it eagerly. It was going to be a long night.

Next to him in the shoes, she was a giant; a good four inches taller. And Murdoc didn’t seem to be thrilled with the situation, his eyes sliding up to her.

“You gotta rub it in more?”

“It was this or stiletto boots.”

“I’d have preferred those. At least I’d have something to fantasize about.”

She took a sip, a smile cracking on her lips.

"_ Muds _?"

"Ah, don't start,” he muttered, looking up at her. “You don't hate me enough to start calling me that. That's reserved from frienemies only."

"You did drag me out of bed to make me come here."

"Fair," he grunted. "I'll let it slide for one night. You're back to 'Dr. Niccals' tomorrow, though."

Her arched eyebrow made him squint.

"Did I not tell you I got my medical license? Oh, that's a looong story. Maybe another time. Lots to do."

The ballroom was full, wall-to-wall people talking and smiling and gesturing, all dressed in outfits that were worth more than all the clothes she’d ever bought in her life combined. 

"So this is, what… a fundraiser of something?"

A harsh laugh coughed up out of him.

"Ah, yeah, in theory."

He leaned up against the wall, lifting his glass to gesture at everyone.

"It's a dog show. The suits love to dress us up and parade us around, see who's got the best in show. Don't know why they bother, it's always me. Not cause I'm the prize poodle, but I always put on the best show," he laughed.

But his face fell as he folded his arms tighter. He lowered his voice, glancing from face to face.

"They want to see you trotted out too."

That got her attention.

"I thought they were just interested in you."

"Well, you're me-adjacent. That makes you interesting. They like to have their fingers in every pie." He turned and pointed at her. "Don't let them go sticking their fingers in your pie when I haven't even gotten the chance, yet. I'm first in line."

"Take a number, then" she chuckled. "Besides, you already did dip your fingers in, if I remember," she added over the rim of her glass.

His crooked teeth bared in a grin.

"Already frisky? Did you down some shots in the bathroom?"

"Unfortunately not," she mumbled, looking around. "I hate shit like this. It makes me nervous."

"They don't give a lick about that. You think I want to be here?"

"Free booze, lots of good-looking people, a chance to make yourself the center of attention… Yes, I think you do."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Lennie had to drag me here by the hair."

"I'm sure you put on a good show," she said, looking down at him.

He gave her a strained grin.

"No one likes a know-it-all, Ange'." He shifted, looking down at his shoes. "I just don't… feel like it."

"Is it because it's just you?"

Murdoc looked up at her.

"Unless I'm talking to a hallucination, which is entirely possible—"

"I meant your band. It's just you this time. I'm sure that's… uncomfortable."

He glanced away.

"I don't… need them. I just don't want to be yanked around on my leash, tonight."

He tensed. She was right. Again. And he hated that.

With the rest of them around he could be left to his own devices—chat people up when it pleased him, walked away when it pleased him. Russel and Noodle went around and talked business, 2D rubbed elbows, and he was let loose to sing his own praises and scout the room for bedmates. He'd done the heavy-lifting in the beginning putting the band together and digging their roots in, and then he'd gotten used to reaping the rewards of making things someone else's problem while still keeping his grip on the wheel. And now it was just… him. Again. Starting all over. Again. Except he was fifty, now, and had a lot less time to fuck around.

Now, he had to cling to a girl twenty years his junior to maintain a shred of what he'd bled for. And she was his last hope.

It was infuriating.

Angel watched him for a long moment, then shrugged.

"Then let's leave."

He snapped back up to her and scoffed.

"You think I wouldn't have if it were that simple? Lennie would have my head on a spike if I cut and run. And she means it. I like being able to leave my house without an armed guard."

"Well, what do you have to do?"

"Glad-hand. Look pretty. Do my piece, sit through some hacks making a speech, get one good photo in, then beat it."

He dug his nails into his arm. And he had to pass her around like a plate of hors d'oeuvres to sell her to the suits behind her back and hope no one gobbled her up while he wasn't looking.

Wolves, the lot of them, circling his sheep, when it was supposed to be him pinning her down.

The more he looked around, the more he realized they'd stumbled into a minefield, and all it was going to take was Angel chatting up the wrong person to make it all blow up in his face. If nothing else, she'd certainly get a lot of gossip about him hissed into her ear. All of it true, probably, but he didn't need that kind of publicity to convince her to take a leap with someone else.

He was regretting getting Lenore involved. But what choice did he have? Angel was his ticket out. A bargaining chip. And with her signed, sealed, and delivered, he was free. If he could get it to that point. 

He was damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

Trapping his bandmates on a deserted island starting sounding better and better… again.

"I need another drink," he moaned, rattling the ice around his already empty glass. "Stay here. Don't talk to anybody."

"Sure, Dad."

He wagged his finger at her, bristling.

"Ooh, don't you start with me. Keep that up and maybe I'll bend you over my knee."

"I'd be so lucky," she snorted.

To his immense displeasure, Lenore was at the bar, talking to a man he vaguely recognized. She turned to him, a malicious grin on her face.

"You seem rattled. How's it going?"

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he spat, fidgeting his fingers.

"Watching you dangling on the end of a rope? Yes, I am. You should have looked before you leapt."

"And why aren't you freaking out? You're tied to my anchor, too."

"You should have told me you wanted time before you demanded I do this _ right away _."

"The gears never turn this fast."

"I greased them because you're desperate. Nut up. Go get her signed. Now. My word only goes so far. Vouch for her. Keep dancing around it and you'll lose her for sure."

"Thanks for the pep-talk, coach."

She looked up at him, letting out a long sigh.

"Everyone's asking me where the rest are. Have you called them all again?"

"Only fifteen times a day," he muttered. "Noods' is the only number that goes through. I think the last voicemail was the four-hundredth. Give or take."

"Well, you can keep trying."

He grabbed up the new glass the bartender slid over to him.

"Yeah. I can keep trying."

She turned around, glancing over her shoulder.

"Your ingénue has gone AWOL."

Murdoc's head snapped up. Bruce was saying something that was making her laugh more than he liked. He snatched up his glass and shoved through a sea of suits.

"Going from metal to acoustic. That's quite a leap," Bruce said with a million-dollar smile.

Angel tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, feeling nervous under his cool gaze.

"Actually, metal was the leap for me. I was kind of pressured into it."

"Well… it's never good to pigeonhole yourself into one thing. But the best artists make what they want, not what they're told. Breaking the boundaries of genres is what the best ones do."

Angel nodded slowly.

"I suppose that's true."

Her drink nearly sloshed out onto the floor when Murdoc's hand wrapped around her wrist, tugging her back.

"Ange'! I see you've met Bruce. Bruce, I see you've got your bow and arrow out," he hissed.

Bruce's lips curled into a grin.

"Your friend's quite lovely. She keeps odd company," he said, looking down at the short man.

Angel's cheeks flushed and Murdoc's face burned with anger.

"You'll have to excuse us. It's well past time for your _ medication _, Ange'."

"My med—"

"She's got a rash," he said loudly. "In a very _ uncomfortable _ spot. Nasty case. Shouldn't get too close."

Angel's mouth hung open, her brain short-circuiting, incapable of coming up with anything to say as he started to drag her away. He shot Bruce an evil glare behind her back.

"I'm about to give _ you _ a rash if you don't tell me what the fuck that was."

He pulled her into the hallway, garnering looks from people that passed by.

"I told you not to talk to anyone."

"Why, are you embarrassed of me? You think I'm going to say something wrong? Because I've got something to tell you, then—"

"These people are not your friends. They all just want something from you."

She laughed.

"And I'm safer with you?"

His jaw tensed.

Angel watched him closely, the gears in her brain turning. Was he… jealous? Was that it? He didn't like her splitting her attention? If that was true, it almost made her want to do it more, to get a rise out of him instead, for once.

"Is it… the other men? You know I'm not perusing for a date, right?"

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" he said flatly.

"I guess not."

She hurried over to a server about to bring around another tray of champagne, thanking him as she plucked one for herself.

"Thirsty?"

"I told you I don't like stuff like this. I need to bolster myself somehow."

"And yet you're here. You could leave, I'm sure Lenore wouldn't tackle you on the way out."

She looked at him.

"Well… then you'd be here by yourself. So… I'll stay, even if I don't like it."

His chest clenched. Why would she suffer something for his benefit? It wasn't like she knew she'd be getting anything out of it.

"I can and will skim a drink from every tray that goes by, though," she said, taking a long sip. "Especially since it's free. I used to go to art galleries just to drink the free boxed wine, so I think I can power through this" she laughed.

Angel watched his suspicious, tight face and swallowed hard. _ Let loose _ , she thought. _ Just have fun. Do it. You have to start living again. _

She downed the rest of the glass, making his eyebrows raise under his bangs.

"You have to make your rounds and get a photo-op, right?"

"Yyyyeah?"

"Okay," she said, setting her empty glass down on a table.

He blinked.

"_ Okay? _"

"Then let's get it over with. Then we can both get the fuck out of here."

She grabbed him around the arm, pulling him to her side. A grin cracked on his lips, he couldn't help himself.

"You _are_ getting drunk."

"Not as drunk as I'm going to be."

"Am I rubbing off on you, you little delinquent?"

"Not yet," she said in a low voice.

A loud cackle burst out of him.

"I'm _ begging _ you to keep drinking."

Angel's arm was latched around his tight as they went back in, her face straining with false confidence. Murdoc eyed her. She was right. He just had to make some rounds around the room, avoid Bruce and the other reps on the hunt, then somehow get the big man Rick alone without her around to talk contracts. He clenched his jaw. This was going to be difficult.

But his gaze fell on one man he knew he could talk to without getting in trouble. His face lit up.

“Finn!” Murdoc exploded, cornering the man across the room.

Angel recognized him. He was the one from the label that met with them about the contract. They one they tried and somehow succeeded in tricking that she was his lawyer. A swell of fear and malicious pride rose in her.

“You remember my, er, legal counsel,” Murdoc said, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Miss… What did I say your name was, again?”

“Ms. Johnson,” Finn hissed, his mouth contorted into a grimace.

“No, I don’t think that was it…”

“I hear you rammed the contract through over my head.”

“Ah, yeah, Lennie’s good at stepping on the bottom-rung creeps to get to someone who actually makes the decisions.”

Angel’s eyes widened, a nervous smile plastered on her face. She took another drink.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He was just the messenger. No need to be scared,” Murdoc said, waving his hand. “Watch.”

He glanced back to Finn.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Finn’s fist tensed and he turned away, shoving through a group of people as he muttered under his breath.

“See?”

“You’re an ass,” she said, but she couldn’t hide the laughter that bubbled up.

“Ah, yes, but I don’t like it when grimy little snakes try to get their hands around my neck. Well, at least outside my bedroom. That’s a tip that’ll come in handy, later,” he added with a wink.

"Are you supposed to be rubbing-elbows, or just airing grievances?"

"Can't I do both?"

Angel's nerves began to ease. From the liquor or from Murdoc's overflowing confidence, she couldn't tell. He gathered up another round of drinks and zeroed his sights on more victims to torment to pass the time.

They were a terror.

Lenore didn't take Angel for a troublemaker, despite the viral fistfight. She seemed demure enough in the studio, but she should have known better if she was interesting enough for Murdoc to keep his eyes in her more than one night.

She watched them from the upper balcony, peering between her fingers as they passed through the crowd.

Angel set to work gathering up champagne off every tray that came around, their glasses clinking with each round they downed.

They posed for more pictures than Lenore wanted, fucking around like they were in a fairground photo booth—one with both their tongues stuck out like off-brand Kiss members, one with the two of them trying to drink from their glasses with their arm hooked around the other's, one with Murdoc in her arms like a new bride, and an especially distasteful one of him licking her face that brought shrieks of laughter and dissent from Angel and drew looks from around the room.

She expected some antics from him, but without the rest of the band as padding, this was just raw, concentrated Murdoc debauchery.

He loaded up a woman’s bag with deviled eggs, stuffing them in one-by-one behind her back as she spoke to Angel, babbling on and on about her trip to India where she “finally found herself”. Lenore recognized her, like she did everyone else there. She was a talent from another label, a woman who had led Murdoc on quite handily before realizing there was no room for her in the band, and then she left with his wallet. Angel kept nodding, feigning interest, keeping her attention away from the goblin right behind her. He jammed in at least two dozen by the time she excused herself, leaving Angel and Murdoc nearly bursting at the seams trying to keep in their laughter.

And Eli had the immense misfortune of showing his face.

Angel was the one who spotted him from across the room, shaking Murdoc by the collar till he spied him too. Lenore gripped her glass, watching with unblinking eyes. She mulled over whether she should just call security then and there, but she held back, quietly wondering how it was going to play out. Angel leaned in and whispered something that made him laugh. Lenore watched closely.

Angel made her way around the edge of the ballroom while Murdoc made a beeline right for the scrawny Eminem wannabe. She couldn’t tell what he said when he came up to him, but Eli looked equal parts horrified and furious. And whatever Murdoc was saying was shifting him further and further into the furious end. But when he turned to leave, he was face-to-face with Angel. Lenore couldn't see her face, but Eli turned so pale she thought he might faint. She leaned into the man, his body jumping under her hand that rested on his shoulder. She was whispering something to him and he nodded quickly, fleeing the second she let go. He slipped out the door and she didn't see him for the rest of the night.

Murdoc was pushed to the edges of his ability to irritate, playing pranks, making fun, and pulling Angel into the middle of it. But one of his most distasteful tendencies at parties like this was conspicuously missing—she hadn't had to peel him off anyone. They leapt from one petty victim to the next and made a spectacle, but his eyes were unusually focused. By now he was usually covered in lipstick marks and all disheveled. But by all accounts, he was keeping it in his pants, which was a pleasant surprise.

But when the few people that were meant to make speeches gathered up on stage and the rest of the room settled into relative quiet, Lenore lost them. They disappeared, which made her even more nervous than when she was watching them muck around like two court jesters. She stared straight ahead, barely hearing the man jabbering on while her nerves ate at her, terrified at what they might have been doing, or what he might have been doing to her.

They wandered around the building until they came upon an empty hall with a green velvet couch meant for tired party-goers that needed a breather. They were both stumbling and laughing, their heads swimming.

“I wish I could get copies of those photos,” she laughed.

“Oh, I’m sure all you’ll have to do is check the internet tomorrow.”

Angel stopped suddenly, absorbing what he’d said.

“I’m a public figure, love. My figure gets put in the public. You want to fraternize with me, you’re going to get caught in the crossfire. Does that bother you?” he prodded.

Angel stared at him, thinking quietly to herself.

It shocked him stiff when she leaned down into him, pulling his face up to her to plant a kiss on him. Her eyes were glazed, her lips parted.

"Just a little… Muds," she hummed.

His lips curled up in a smirk.

"You like calling me that?" he purred. "It's insulting. Or maybe you just don't like that someone else's got a nickname for me?"

"I just like to irritate _ you _ for once."

"You _ are _ getting on my nerves for teasing me. First you want to, then you don’t, then you do. You’re fickle."

“I don’t think that bothers you much.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he hummed.

She sat down on the couch, her ankles wobbling in the heels, looking up at him. Murdoc laughed in his chest. He sat in her lap, arms threaded around her neck and shoulders, her hands pressing into the small of his back under his jacket.

She knew it was a bad idea. She knew she should have been stopping him. But she didn't want to. It felt too good to have him against her. Heavy petting was different than sex. She could handle this. Just this once.

His no-kissing-rule was well gone. It was the only thing he could get out of her, and he wasn't going to let a personal code get in the way of getting into her one way or another.

His long tongue shot into her, drawing out a groan that echoed in his mouth. His back arched, his pelvis pushing against her. It was all too innocent for him, too chaste compared to what he wanted to do to her. He wanted to snap the buttons right off the shirt Lenore had put between them, unzip her pants and push into her right there in the hallway. That would really show the rest of them how it was. That she was his to use, not theirs. It'd show them who was in control, making her mouth fall open and sing everyone a song written just for him. He was wearing her dedication right on his ear for everyone to see and no one knew. He wanted to give them all something unmistakable. No one would even try to take her away with his name coming out of her flushed lips. He could see her desperate face, her body twisting under him. There wouldn't be one spot left untouched on her. Then she'd never even think about jumping ship once she'd had him. She'd want him again.

All for his freedom, all for the album. That's all he needed from her. That was it. Having her around to fill the silence was just a bonus. He had to lock her down.

His teeth clenched down on her lip as he pulled away.

“I want you to make me a promise,” he said in a low voice.

She eyed him nervously, wary even through the spell of the liquor.

“What kind of promise?”

“Don’t leave. Stay till the album’s done. I’ll keep paying you, you can stay in the flat, I won’t charge you. You can come and go, as you like. Just don’t leave me.”

Her brow furrowed as she blinked.

“I… why would I leave you in the lurch now? After everything you’ve already done to me?” she laughed. “I told you I’d help you.”

“Promise,” he insisted, his lips brushing hers, his grip on her jaw tightening. “Promise you won’t leave till it’s done.”

“Yeah, I promise.”

He watched her intently. Just because she said it didn't make it true. But what was he supposed to do? Make her sign a contract, here and now? He considered for a second before releasing his grip, deflating.

“Alright.”

Angel was still looking at him, searching. It made him uneasy.

“I’ve been listening to your music, you know.”

He stared down at her, feeling his stomach roil and heat rush to his face. It made him hold his breath. What did he have to be embarrassed about? Millions of people heard his music. What was the difference?

“Yeah?” he managed, trying to recover. “Not a surprise. I am a musical genius.”

“I listened to your last one, Plastic Beach.”

“And? You liked it so much you decided you wanted me to shove my tongue down your throat again?”

“I was trying to get into your head, so I could write something. You said you did the lyrics?”

“Most of them,” he mumbled, leaning in to clamp his teeth down on her earlobe.

She sucked in a breath.

“What… what happened to you?”

He pulled back, looking down at her. Angel’s inhibitions had slipped away with the liquor, and she was left unfiltered and unafraid to look him in the face and talk.

“You sounded…”

“Insane?” he suggested.

That would have been accurate. He had been. He still was. It was just easier to hide, now, without someone looking directly at him.

“Lonely,” she said quietly.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Are you lonely, Muds?”

“A-again with the nickname,” he struggled, avoiding the question. “It doesn’t sound right coming out of you. Maybe if you moaned it, it would sound better.”

He slid his hand to her neck, squeezing lightly. Angel sat up straight, her hands clenching his back and eyes wide. He let go—that was a red flag. Murdoc looked away.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve always been fine. Don't worry about me. Those are just the lyrics that sell.”

Angel didn’t look convinced. He leaned back in, closing her lips with a rough kiss, his tongue running over hers.

He wanted her to stop—stop asking questions, stop caring, stop looking at him like she did. He wanted to hold her at arm's length, and he wanted to handcuff her to him. He wanted to jam himself down her throat till she couldn't talk anymore, and wanted to never stop hearing her voice. He wanted all of that at the same time.

Schrodinger's lover.

Lover.

It made him sick that he just thought that.

The album was all that he should have been thinking about. Anything to get the shackle off his leg. He forced himself to focus.

"Let's go somewhere," he grunted into her mouth. "Anywhere. Somewhere that's not here."

"Like a vacation?" she laughed.

"Sure, like a vacation. Where would you want to go?"

Angel leaned back, trying to think through the thick haze of her brain that grew thicker with each glass of champagne she'd downed. He moved to her neck, his hand clutching the side of her face as his jaws opened to give her a gentle bite. She fought a moan, blinking to clear her head against the wash of pleasure that came over her.

"Um… You said you loved Ibiza."

"As much as I do, we'd need someplace less… predictable for me," he groaned the last words against her throat. “That’s the first place Lennie would look.”

"Ah, uh…" She forced herself to concentrate. "New York?"

"Pegged you more for a small-town girl."

"I'm trying to branch out," she laughed. "And what would we do there?"

His hot breath pooled in the crook of her neck.

"Let's see… what could we do to fill the time…" he hummed against her skin.

He clenched his legs around her hips, his nail dragging across her lower lip.

"You're not serious," she slurred, giggling.

He stared at her, then coughed out a little laugh.

"No, I’m not. Just want to be not here."

"Then let's leave."

He pulled back, a long breath leaving him.

"One more thing I got to do. Then we can beat it."

"Mr. Niccals'," Rick grunted, his hand on his belt loop. "Nice of you to stop raising hell for ten seconds."

Murdoc stood in front of the man by himself. He'd told Angel to wait for him out front. He had to make this quick before someone got to her.

"Rick," he grunted, struggling to contain himself. "Lenore already talked to you."

"That she did. You want me to sign that girl."

"Yes."

"And why would I do that? As a favor to you?" he snorted. "You bleed money without the rest of your group. I prefer doing business with that other girl, Noodle. She's got business sense."

"Angel and I," he said, taking care to use her real name, "are making an album. I'm producing, she's the artist. You've got experience backing up new talent, it's low-risk. You've got nothing to lose. If it's good, it's new revenue for you. If it blows…"

He grit his teeth.

"Then you can shut me back in a tiny little cage. You win either way."

Rick looked down at him.

"Lenore made a better argument."

"I'm sure she did," he muttered.

Murdoc stared straight ahead, using every ounce of effort still left in his drunk body to keep himself from talking.

"Your deadline is still the end of October. Don't even try to get me to budge on that. Consider her signed once you turn over the full tracklist. If you fuck up, we'll replace you. Don't think we won't."

Murdoc was shaking.

"Right," he said, then quickly turned on his heel and went rushing for the door before he opened his mouth and sent everything sideways.

Angel was waiting at the door, leaning on the wall, her eyes fluttering.

"Let's get the fuck outta here."

They somehow managed to call a car between the two of them and climbed into the backseat, their heads spinning. The whole ride was spent babbling, laughing, with Murdoc making fun of others and Angel shifting between scolding him for being an ass and grinning like a cat at his sharp tongue.

They dumped themselves out onto the sidewalk when the car stopped, leaving them in the quiet darkness together.

"Ah, this isn't the right address," he slurred, glancing around once the car had pulled away.

"What did you put in?"

"I don't know," he laughed.

Angel sighed, awkwardly getting down onto her ass, sitting on the curb while Murdoc fiddled with his phone, calling another car.

"So, what pulled the stick out of your ass?" he said suddenly. "You're usually Miss Rule Follower."

Angel snorted, glancing up at him.

"You did." He stopped, and she shook her head. "That's just going to give you an ego-stroking."

He grunted, struggling to sit down beside her.

"I envy you. You just… do what you want. I wasn't always like this, you know," she said. "Good girls don't couch surf and jump from job to job. I wasn't straight-laced. I was an off-the-cuff, adventurous… loser."

She sat up as straight as she could.

"I-I-I used to DJ at clubs, you know? I wore _ body glitter _ . My hair was _ pink. _ And-and I got drunk and got into fights and I knocked out a guy's tooth, once, cause he grabbed my friend. I was _ tough _."

"Yeah, crybaby, I'm sure you were."

"I was. I _ was _. Now," she mumbled, dragging the bottom of her heel across the sidewalk. "Now I'm a nervous ball of… exposed wires. I'm afraid to even make a decision. I've made so many bad ones, I don't trust myself anymore. I… need to play it safe. I already fucked up too bad."

"Fuck Billy," he snapped.

"That was the problem," she laughed, her face falling slowly. "I don't know. It changed me. Made me… afraid. It made me realize that every choice I make in my life is taking me towards some natural conclusion. I only have so much time before I can't repair the choices I've made anymore. I'm not a kid anymore. I need to be... better."

"We're all kids. Doesn't get any easier the older you get," he muttered. "You still feel the same. You'll always be running against the clock, worrying about whether what you've done is worth it."

Angel stared at him.

"It's always like this?"

"It's always like this."

She glanced down at her feet, all blistered-up inside the shoes. He layed back on the sidewalk staring up at the sky that swirled along with his spinning head.

"You might as well do what you like. Shit's always going to come and kick you in the dick either way."

"Yes, because you've lived a life of temperance. You'd know."

"I've gone on a few saintly benders. Never lasted long because it's not worth it. You try, you get hurt. You don't try, you get hurt. Same result with double the effort. So do whatever the fuck you want. Like you were ever going to be the punch-card type, anyway. You still dye your hair blue, for fuck's sake."

He reached over, gripping her hair in both hands.

"You should do black, next time."

"So you've told me," she snickered. "As if I'd want to match."

"It's an elegant color."

"Oh, for an elegant man."

"I am, thank you."

His stomach lurched and he turned away, puking directly into the storm drain. Angel burst out laughing. But the laughing turned into heaving and she turned, throwing up too.

He bent over with howling laughter, bracing his hands on his knees.

Murdoc ripped his jacket off and threw it to the ground once he got inside, Angel closing the door behind her. He made a swaying effort to climb the stairs before stopping, leaning heavy on the railing. Angel came up behind him, laughing and planting her hands on his ass, trying to push him up the stairs.

"St-stop," he groaned.

She peered at his face, twisted in pain.

"Your knee?"

He didn't say anything, staring at the steps with gritted teeth. It hurt whenever, now. For no reason. It enraged him. A constant, nagging reminder that he was getting older.

She looped his arm around her shoulder, trying her best to stand up straight, and between her and railing he pulled himself up the stairs.

They coiled into a pile in his bed, clothes and shoes still on, both of them collapsing on to the mattress, Angel's arms thrown around him, her head resting on his chest.

“Hope you’ve got your passport,” he mumbled, his arm thrown over his face.

“Why?” she mumbled.

He said nothing, pulling out his phone, his fingers moving quick over the screen. Hers vibrated on the nightstand, but she was already knocked-out, eyes closed against him. Murdoc laid watching the ceiling, brimming with fear and anticipation, hoping Lenore would handle the details in the meantime. He had his ticket, and now it was time to cash it in.

Lenore's phone buzzed, her dark eyes flicking over the notification. She sucked in a long breath on her menthol cigarette, sighing.

_ Murdoc Niccals paid AJ. £6,000. _

"Fuck."


	18. Chapter 18

“Hellllo?” Murdoc answered the phone.

“I saw your money transfer. You’re running off again?” Lenore said, sounding not at all surprised.

“Ah, if you mean high-tailing it out of Manchester as fast as possible… yes.”

She rubbed her face, leaning on the table.

"That's all I need is you running roughshod all over creation dragging your diva behind you. This is the same shit you did to Stuart."

"Why are you still calling him that?" he muttered.

"Because it's his name."

He scoffed.

“If you wanted to stop me, you’d have just shown up and thrown me in a sack without a courtesy call. So you’re not going to put up a fight?”

"I'm guessing you're already at the terminal?”

“You are correct.”

He glanced over at Angel, her head in her hands, nursing a pounding headache.

He’d taken her back to the flat in the morning and told her to pack and get her passport.

“You were serious?” she moaned, squinting in the daylight.

“As a heart attack. Pass me your phone, I’m going to get us the tickets.”

She was in too much pain to protest and handed it over, trying to think through the fog of her throbbing skull.

Angel knew she should have been saying no, that that was a ridiculous idea and that she wouldn't be going. But the concept of it made her insides flutter. They could just get on a plane and go… anywhere. Away from Billy, away from everything here. Even just for a little bit. She found herself frighteningly unwilling to turn him down.

He'd already convinced her to break into her ex's house. What was a trip in comparison to that?

There wasn’t much to pack, just the few clothes she had. She struggled out of the dress clothes from Lenore, not without a copious amount of “helping” from Murdoc which she swatted away in irritation, and slid into a normal outfit, shoving her feet into her sneakers and tossing her heels into her bag.

He could barely sleep the night before, laying awake, feeling Angel lying on top of him. He poured through every hotel in New York, looking for one that would suit them for a while. If he got her alone, then they could just work on the demos till he had something to bring back and record. It was less like trapping her on a deserted island and more like… trapping her on an island that at least had more to look at.

He checked his bass, her guitar, and the rest of the equipment, got them through security, and they were set. All they had to do was get on the plane without being stopped.

Lenore let out a long sigh.

"I know better than to try to prevent you from doing every single thing you want to. Go on your little sabbatical. But you better be working. I’m going to be drawing up a contract with Rick today. I’ll email it to you, but you’re going to need her signature. Can’t keep her in the dark forever.”

Murdoc’s smirk dissolved. He hadn’t thought about that. He bit his lip, his brain racing. She’d read the contract for sure, so there was no way he could get her to sign without her knowing what he was doing.

“Just tell her, Muds. She already thinks she’s doing demos for you. Just tell her you want to keep her on and make a real album together. She might be flattered. Might get you some points with her, even.”

“Send it over to me,” he said, hanging up.

If he could keep the charade up just a little longer, she’d bang the album out and he could sign his name on it. He’d cross the bridge of her permission when it came to it. He needed the album first. He couldn’t risk the chance that she’d say no. When 2D had said no, he had to forcibly kidnap him. At least Angel was being willingly kidnapped. If she didn't comply, he’d have no one else left to help him. He would tell her, come clean... eventually. When he had the music in his hand.

He pressed the edge of his phone to his lips. He had to get this done as soon as possible before someone opened their big mouth to her. He watched her, his eyes narrowing. He had to get her notebook, see what he was working with.

Angel peeked up at him through her fingers.

"You're really dragging me to New York?" she moaned.

"Oh, come on, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Buried in my throbbing head, somewhere," she grunted.

"Lightweight," he muttered, giving her a playful little kick.

A fourteen-hour flight. She should have remembered how horribly long it had been from the first time she made it. But now that she had a hangover and she was going to be strapped in beside Murdoc the entire time, she wondered if she was going to make it at all.

Boarding was a blur. She was just grateful that Murdoc flew first class, which wasn’t a surprise. She at least had the room to lay back and cradle her head in her hands. Murdoc, on the other hand, was all smiles and was jabbering a million miles an hour. Angel pretended to listen, wishing he’d just taken some sleeping pills and passed the fuck out, like she wanted to.

He leaned over, shaking her.

"Hey, before you slip into a hangover coma, give me your book."

“My book?”

“Your notebook, with your songs.”

That sat her up. Her chest clenched.

“Uh… some of the stuff in there isn’t ready.”

“All the better reason for someone new to poke around with them."

She gave him a wary look, her eyes darting up to the compartment where her bag was tucked away.

"Come on, I showed you mine, let me get a peek under the blouse."

She wasn't biting. He clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"You’ve got to show me sometime. Or else I guess this’ll just be a really long holiday."

She thought she would have been able to go through a few drafts before showing something to them. But having him go through everything she'd written down, right here, right now, was agonizing.

"Can't we wait till we get there to start working?"

"Why, did you have other plans for our flight? Were they more in the direction of getting in the bathroom together, or watching every b-list movie from the last three years?"

Her face crumpled up. He wasn't going to stop.

"They're not ready."

"Neither were mine. It's a creative process! We need to trust each other. Don't you trust me?" he asked, flashing a grin.

"Not particularly."

"That just means you're not a moron. But I do need to see the book, love. I'm not a professor, I'm not going to give you a grade. Oh, I could, though, if you're into that sort of thing."

Angel stared at him staring at her. She probably could have just crossed her arms and refused. There wasn't much he could do about it. But there was nowhere to go. She'd be stuck beside him the next fourteen hours with him coming up with new ways to torture her into giving in.

"Do I need to haggle with you?"

He leaned over, his chin in his hand.

"If you give it to me, I won't bother you this whooole time. You can rest that pounding head of yours," he said, squeezing her cheek.

She swatted him away, scowling.

Angel tensed, then got up to reach into the overhead, unzipping her bag to pull the book out. Murdoc had to hold himself back. Her shirt pulled up from her jeans, leaving a tantalizing length of her middle extremely open. He cleared his throat, glancing away. He at least had to wait to piss her off until the plane left the tarmac and there was nowhere for her to go.

The book slapped down into his lap, leaving her looking a mix of irritated and nervous. He snapped it up before she could change her mind.

"Thank youuu. Ooh, it's like swapping diaries, how intimate. We could stay up and tell each other secrets, maybe paint our nails."

She stepped over his lap, another test of his willpower. It would have been so easy to reach out and grab her by the hips.

“You’ve already got one down,” she mumbled, referring to the one red pinky nail on his right hand.

Murdoc didn’t say anything, clenching his fingers up.

She collapsed back into the seat, looking away from him. He leaned back, leafing through the pages slowly. Angel couldn't watch him go through it, couldn't look him in the eye. It was like he was undressing her, agonizing and slow. She’d written down shit in there that she never expected him to read, and it was too late to snatch it back now. It was like having captions on the thoughts racing through her brain with no filter. His eyes fell back down to the book.

She crossed her legs, leaning as far away from him as she possibly could.

“This is going to be a long flight if you’re going to be like that. Imagine what it’ll feel like with hundreds of thousands of people picking your lyrics apart, not just me.”

“I couldn’t care less about that. You know this isn’t the first album I’ve ever been involved in, right?”

“Then what’s it matter?” He leaned back. “Are you just star-struck?” he teased.

Angel gripped her arms hard. His smile fell.

“Oh shit, you are.”

“It’s not that. It’s like… it would be different for your friend to read your diary than a stranger. It’s personal, and you know me. It’s… nerve-wracking.”

He snorted as he glanced back down at the book.

“I’ve already seen you naked. Well… almost. I guess you still have a few secrets left.”

Something in her snapped.

“Do you really not give a shit what you say to people?" she spat.

He blanked, staring at her.

“You uh… doing alright, there?”

Angel grit her teeth and turned away, her stomach wrenching.

“No… my head,” she grumbled.

That was half-true.

"Well, next time we go on a rampage, leave the heavy drinking to the professional, eh?"

She closed her eyes, praying she’d just pass out.

The sound of him flicking through the pages was deafening, but what was worse was his silence. No comments, no critique, not even a chuckle. Just… nothing. She squeezed her eyes tighter.

She watched the ground disappear into sky, her eyelids fluttering. They were really going. Even on their way to the airport, through security, boarding, none of it seemed real until she felt the plane taking off.

Despite herself, a tiny buzz of excitement vibrated in her. It wasn't like her to agree to something so hasty and sudden like this. Well, it wasn't like her anymore. Three years ago, maybe. She'd spent so much time saying no, running away, hiding, avoiding… it was time for her to open up again. Maybe this would be a good thing. She cringed at the sound of pages turning. Unfortunate for her that the one she was testing out her commitment to openness on was him.

He poured over the book. She was prolific. Every inch of the pages were used, back and front, some things scribbled out, some things repeated just slightly different, but it was packed. It made him a little nervous. She had no problem with her writing, and it was like he was just stuck in one place, coming up dry every time he tried to work. It was good news for him, though. If he could get her to finish them, it wouldn’t be hard to meet his deadline.

The contents of the songs, however, gave him pause.

She clearly wasn’t over Billy. It showed. It was obvious. A mixture of hate and remorse and resentful love were splattered all over the pages. Her apprehension to show him suddenly made more sense. It was like reading her diary. It almost made him uncomfortable. Almost. But he was nosey by nature and relished the chance to get in her head.

His eyes flicked from one unfinished song to the next, each one a fragment of some part of her that Billy busted into pieces.

“_ You’re growing tired of me. And all the things that I don’t talk about. Sorry I don’t want your touch, it’s not that I don’t want you. It’s just that I fell in love with a war, and nobody told me it ended. And it left a pearl in my head, and I roll it around every night, just to watch it glow. Every night, that's where I go. _”

Yikes.

A lot of it was like that—grief, guilt, admittance of lingering feelings. Snippets of midnight thoughts. Some, he thought, might have been from before things went bad. Among the laments were just pure love songs. Not what he expected from her with the long list of harsh lyrics she'd written for her old band.

He glanced over at her, but her eyes were closed. She was either pretending to sleep or had actually passed out. Whichever it was, better for both of them, he figured.

It bothered him more than he expected that she was still getting over that sick bastard. Billy didn't deserve that kind of dedication, that kind amount of thought. He must have wormed his way in deep, or she was more masochistic than he thought. Though he had no room to talk.

At least there was something to work with. As long as he could convince her to cross the finish line with him when they got to it, he was set. Relief creeped into him. If she could deliver, then he was as good as free. Then he wouldn’t need her anymore. More importantly, he could go out and find the others without a deadline dogging his heels.

Murdoc twitched, his shoulders stiffening as Angel’s head slid down to rest on his shoulder. He glanced over, considering shrugging her off, but he stayed still.

He let out a sigh.

This was going to be a long flight.

She was a completely different beast when she woke up.

Angel had slept through most of the flight, where he’d only been able to shut his eyes for a few minutes at a time. By the time they landed, she was refreshed and ready to go, and he was ragged around the edges and stiff.

Even getting through security and customs didn’t wear her out. She was nearly vibrating. He stared at her. Her entire demeanor had shifted. Not only had her hangover subsided into a tiny ache, but it was like she’d let out a long breath she’d been holding for a century. She seemed… at ease.

“You seem excited,” he drawled.

“I lived here for a few years, I’m actually pretty happy to be back.”

He blinked, trying to absorb that information.

“I… thought you were a Southern Belle.”

“Only for a few years. I never did fit the mould down there. My Dad and I moved south for work when I was seventeen, and I moved back out after he… died. Just five years down there. But… it was a good five years.”

She shook herself.

“This is where I lived right before I came over. I missed it."

"When I said you seemed more like a small-town girl, you told me you were trying to '_branch out'_."

"I was making fun of you," she said flatly. "It's not my fault you never asked questions."

Murdoc rolled his eyes. He had, inadvertently, taken her home. With one sentence, she instantly robbed him of his upper-hand.

If she’d told him she used to live in New York, he’d have taken her anywhere else. He intended to strand her somewhere strange, with no distractions, no acquaintances, just to focus on one thing. And he’d brought her to her old doorstep and, most likely, old friends and flames. He considered if he could possibly get her drunk and stick them on a flight somewhere else.

He didn’t even notice that Angel was running on ahead of him.

He could tell she was getting more and more comfortable when they got out of the cab that took them to Manhattan, at her request. That, or her hangover was getting exponentially worse and she was punishing him. Maybe both. Either way, he could feel the reins slipping out of his hands. Gone was Angel the follower. He’d woken up front-man Angel. And he couldn’t tell if he hated or loved it.

She was the one that called a car, dragging him one step behind. He gave her the address, but that was the extent of his involvement in the transaction. She spent the entire ride peering out the window, sometimes pointing out places she recognized to him, going on and on with personal anecdotes which made him realize the gravity of his mistake. He gave her a strained smile. He was the one stranded, not her.

But when they finally got to the hotel, she suddenly had nothing to say, staring up at the building as Murdoc hurried inside.

Angel hovered outside the door. She'd seen the hotel from the outside before, but never went in. She never even had the money to go to the bar there, let alone stay in a room. When she lived in the city, she barely had enough to cover her portion of the rent and her walking-around money had been scarce, when she had it at all. But Murdoc, she guessed, he didn't have those kinds of problems.

"We're going to work here?" she said, coming up behind him.

"Unless you'd like to play the metro stops, yeah, we're working here."

He slid his card to the man at the counter, leaving her gawking at the lobby, the handle of her suitcase tight in her hand and her guitar slung across her back.

It was a nice place. Actual nice. Not nice-for-tourists nice. Real marble and brass, old money kind of nice. It wasn't cheap.

He started walking to the elevator without her.

"Won't we bother the other people?"

"I rented out the room below us. Nobody on either side. So, if someone complains, they can kiss my arse, and you can… I don't know, rough them up. I forget, are you an assistant or a bodyguard?"

"You know, it's not really clear anymore."

The elevator doors shut in front of them.

"I can't even imagine what it must be like for you," she suddenly said.

"Few can," he laughed.

"No, I mean you can just," she snapped her fingers, "use your card and get whatever. And it's no big deal."

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Angela. Didn't take you for a sugar baby."

"Please," she spat. "I didn't even know who the fuck you were when I came to work for you. You could have been a penniless wash-up, for all I knew."

"Maybe a clever ruse!"

"If I wanted to rob you, I'd have done it a long time ago."

"Fair point. You're an idiot for not."

She followed him down the hall.

"I didn't always have money, you know. I was bottom-rung. Dear-old-Dad spent all the money on booze and until I learned to pick pockets, I was the poorest son of a bitch in Stoke."

"When did you learn that?"

"Eight," he said, scanning his card. "You can tell I never learned good economic living from how utterly irresponsible I am with my wealth. Lennie always tells me I'll spend myself broke, but I always manage to bounce back. It's because I'm insufferable. Insufferable people always find a way."

He pushed the door open.

"Feel free to rent yourself a room someplace else if your moral compass deems it necessary," he said over his shoulder. "There's only one bed!"

Angel looked around the room from the door, trying to keep her mouth from falling open.

She didn't know what she expected. He'd gotten the penthouse suite, and it looked like something from a movie—a balcony, a bedroom and a living room, and from the edge of her eye she saw the bathroom with a shower and a bath.

"Is this just how it is for you everywhere you go?"

"Yeah, it's horrible. The strippers don't even come included in the price of the room, and there's no velvet anywhere. Sorry, we're slumming it," he said, pulling open the sliding glass door to the balcony.

They could see the river from there, and across to Manhattan.

"I mean, if it's too much for you, I guess I could trade us down to a twin bed on the first floor…"

He heard the tub turn on and turned to see Angel leaning over the side, running her hand under the water. The bathroom had a mirror ceiling, and everything was spotless and polished.

She looked up at him as he came up behind her, her eyes wide.

"It's got jets."

He burst out laughing and it echoed all around the room.

"Jesus, you're easy to please."

She got to her feet, coming up right in front of him. Murdoc took a step back, startled by the intense look on her face.

"There's something I've always wanted to do."

They both sighed, sinking down further into the hot water. Angel's eyes slipped closed with her head leaned back over the edge of the tub, her fingers wrapped around a cold glass of champagne, buried up to her chin in a foam of bubbles. Murdoc groaned, sitting opposite of her, the jets hitting the middle of his back.

"I told you, you're an idiot for not robbing me. You could've been living like this two months ago."

"Two and a half," she mumbled.

"Oh, then consider this your almost-three-month anniversary party," he said, lifting his glass.

She lifted hers.

"Congratulations, I haven't quit."

"You actually did."

"And you promoted me, so who's the idiot, now?"

"I like to think of it as… high-risk investment."

The bottle of champagne shifted in the ice bucket as the room grew hot. Angel melted. For her, this was as good as it got. She thought if she ever reached this point, she was at the top. It wasn't her who made it, exactly, but she was enjoying it all the same.

"You know, this is a lot better naked," he said, looking over at her, his arms laid over the sides of the tub.

She drew her knees up. She'd insisted on getting into the water in her underwear, and was at least glad for the fact that she was wearing a matching set.

"I'll take your word for it."

Murdoc, on the other hand, stripped down faster than she'd ever seen someone do and got in right away before she could stop him. She kept her eyes trained above the water. She'd caught a glimpse of him on his way in and wasn't displeased by what she saw. She raised her glass to her lips, glancing away.

The sun was already starting to set, turning the reflection of the river gold and blue. Sweat beaded down the back of her neck, her hair tied up, and a warm breeze cooled her face from the open balcony. It was peaceful.

"This is nice," she said softly. "Thank you."

Murdoc looked startled, tensing up a bit.

"Er… sure, love." He tried to recover himself, slapping on a wide grin. "I could make it better."

"Getting less nice," she said, pressing her foot against his chest as he moved to get up.

He grunted, lying back.

"What's next on your fancy-living bucket list? Oysters? Designer shoes? A helicopter ride? Those cakes with the gold leaf on it?"

"I really want a slice of pizza."

He stared at her.

"You don't understand," she said, pulling him to the end of the counter. "English pizza isn't the same, not at all. If it's not served to you on wax paper by man that yells at you and is dripping grease, it's not worth it."

"Which one is dripping, the pizza or the man?"

She cracked open a can of soda.

"Both, preferably."

She was passed a huge slice over the counter and she eagerly took it.

"Aren't you going to get anything?"

"Not particularly hungry, love."

"That's bullshit. You just had a fourteen-hour flight, a half-hour drive to the hotel, an hour soak, and a twenty minute walk. There's _ no way _ you're not hungry."

He pulled a face.

"What is with you and the not eating thing?" she said, biting off the end of the slice.

The grease dripped onto the wax paper.

"It's not a _ thing _," he insisted, shifting aside as the man behind them pushed past. "I've got my trim figure to worry about."

Angel held it out to him as they walked out of the shop.

"You better bite it, or I'm gonna bite you."

"Is that a promise?"

"Jesus Christ, just eat it."

He thinned his lips into a scowl and took it from her, taking a bite off and handing it back.

"Happy?"

"Getting there."

She handed him the soda, which he didn't fight as hard.

"So… do you just not eat around other people or are you always like this?"

"Do you always pry into people's personal business, or just mine?"

"You're irritated, which means it actually bothers you that I'm pointing it out, which means it _ is _ a thing."

He turned away, his thumbs tucked into his belt loops.

"I… just don't like it, alright?"

"You'll drink till you fall down in front of me, but you won't eat a slice of pizza?"

He didn't say anything. Angel grew quiet, watching him. He really didn't want to talk about it. She relented.

Angel didn't say anything else about it, but she forcibly passed the slice back to him every other bite and he fought her less and less, though he didn't seem any less irritated.

"You're lucky," she said. "Usually I take out-of-towners to five different pizza places in a row. I guess I'll just have to settle for one."

"_ You're _ an out-of-towner, now."

"God, don't say that," she muttered, emptying the soda. "I guess I'm an out-of-towner everywhere, really. I haven't stayed in one place longer than five years. Boston, Jersey, New Bern, Morehead, Philly, New York, Southend, Manchester… it's been a while since I stuck around somewhere. You should be flattered that I haven't moved on by now."

"Oh, there's still time. My incredible personality isn't for _ everyone's _palette. Only the most refined."

She snatched him by the back of the shirt to pull him back onto the curb, nearly missing a biker.

"I'm sure." She crumpled the can and the paper and tossed them into the garbage. "You're… getting less grating over time," she admitted.

He eyed her, his stomach twisting.

"How long till you move on from me?"

Angel glanced back at him.

"I don't know, I haven't made up my mind about it. I told you I'd stay to make the album, you don't have to worry about that."

He fished his cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting up.

"What'll you do after?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe go back to playing little shithole bars. I miss that. I'll have to get a band first. It's not so fun with just me," she snorted. "All lesbians, no more guys."

"You'll bat for the other team?"

"I've been known to step up to the plate here and there," she said with a tiny smile. "No home-runs, but that's not entirely my fault. Girls can be shy."

"Like you're not."

"I'm _ careful _, not shy," she clarified.

"You should hook up with Fran," he said, blowing out a stream of smoke.

Angel burst out laughing.

"I'm not her type, but thanks for the suggestion, cupid. Fran likes tiny, cute girls. Princesses. I'm more… Amazon queen."

"Hey, then she doesn't know what she's missing."

She eyed him, and he sucked in a quick breath.

"Limiting yourself to one type of person is like only eating one kind of ice cream forever, ordering vanilla every time. It's boring. Amazon queen… is more like pistachio."

"Thanks?" she snorted. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks for the life advice."

"I've got lots of it, but no one seems to listen." He smirked, smoke leaking through his crooked teeth. "I remember my first guy. And that was _ before _being bi was cool. That was back when it got your nose busted-in. Ooh, he was beautiful, though. And had a cock like you wouldn’t believe. Too bad he didn't pan out, he could've been a trophy husband."

"You're telling me you would've gotten married?"

"No, absolutely not," he said, flicking his ashes out. "But it's fun to daydream, sometimes. Holy matrimony isn't for me. I'm not a settle-down kind of guy. I'm… an out-of-towner, too," he added in a mumble.

Angel gave him a weird smile before glancing down at her shoes.

"I guess neither of us likes staying in one place. It's in our nature to wander. Maybe that's why we’re both never really all that happy."

He looked up at her, his cigarette hanging in his loose lips.

"I suppose so. How astute for someone your age."

"Which is what, exactly?"

He smirked.

"I don't know, I just saw _ 'June' _ on your ID before I nearly died laughing at your picture."

"Hey, no one's ID photo ever looks good."

"Almost your birthday then, eh?"

"I'll let you figure that out for yourself."

"Well, how about for your big day you write an album?"

"Oh, that's the best gift I could hope for."

"A gift for both of us," he said with a laugh.

Angel looked at him as he babbled on, only half-listening.

Two out-of-towners, briefly sharing the same space. There was something comforting about that.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged for: Explicit sex, mentions of sexual/physical abuse and stalking

She was insatiable.

He didn't know where her energy had suddenly come from, but she was bottled lightning, crackling and eager to be anywhere but where he wanted to be—laying in the hotel bed in his underwear, trying and failing to fall asleep.

She paced the penthouse like a dog waiting to be let out.

"Okay," he finally snapped, throwing his hands up. "You're driving me even more insane than I already am. Where is it you want to go? Do I need to take you out on a walk? Play fetch in the park? What is it, girl?"

"I was thinking… there's this pool hall I've been missing—"

That's what she wanted?

He opened his mouth to tell her she could go by herself, but he stopped. He didn't want to turn her loose on her own yet. That set a precedent, and it would be harder to rope her in later.

And he knew there was no way she could beat him, anyway.

And, unfortunately for him and his chances of sleep, that idea stoked his competitive nature. He coughed out a laugh.

"I accept."

"You… accept?"

“Your surrender. I accept it. There’s no way you're better than me, so I’m just skipping to the end result."

A grin crept across her lips.

“If you want to make assumptions, go ahead. But I don’t think it would be a good idea to bet against a waitress.”

“That so?”

“When you get off work at one in the morning, there’s nowhere else to go but bars. You either get good at playing pool, darts, or banging the line cooks.”

He glanced over at her with a grin.

“Not good at darts, never met a line cook I liked enough to catch the clap,” she asserted. “That leaves pool.”

He nodded suspiciously and went about getting himself ready.

He threw on different clothes, complaining about the heat, which Angel knew wasn't even close to how hot it would be next month. She deliberately ignored the way his jeans clung to his legs, or his black tank-top that didn’t _ quite _ meet the hem of his pants, or the skull belt buckle around his hips that looked extremely easy to grab. The cross pendant moved across his chest in an obscene way she couldn’t articulate, sliding slow against him.

“Well!” he said suddenly, clapping his hands together. “Are you ready to be embarrassed? Get your ass kicked by a fifty year old geriatric patient?”

A smile pulled at the edge of her lips that she couldn’t wrangle.

“Only if you’re ready to go cry in the bathroom after you lose to a girl nearly half your age.”

“Ooh, ouch. My pride.” He glanced back at her. “Nearly? Higher or lower?"

The pool hall she used to go to was still around, and she figured still would be at the end of time. It was all the things a good pool hall should be—dark, dirty, and (for New York standards) cheap. Not overcrowded and not dead. Heaven.

Angel hurried and made two beers appear for them, alongside quarters for the table.

Murdoc watched her rack the balls up, leaning on the table. He hadn't seen her like this the whole time he'd known her. Ever since they landed, something in her had shifted, and he felt like he was just along for the ride. It made him nervous. The whole point was to keep her under his thumb, keep her close, watch her, make sure she worked. Like keeping a spider under a glass. And now he could feel his control slipping away.

She handed off a cue to him, looking pleased with herself. He scoffed. At least he could whip her ass at this.

He tucked his cigarette between his fingers, lining his shot up, and hit hard, sending the balls scattering all over the table and sinking… none of them. Angel nearly sucked her beer up her nose, laughing. He clenched his jaw.

"Fuck off, I haven't played in six years."

"Six years ago I was hustling old men like you for bar money," she snorted.

He walked up to her and pinched her cheek hard.

"Respect your elders, degenerate."

"You need me to pick something easier? Checkers? Shuffleboard?"

He gripped her other cheek.

"Watch your mouth or I'm going to put you in time-out.”

“I'm shaking,” she said, swatting him away.

She stepped around him, leaning down with her cue between her fingers. She shot the ball into the 5, which rolled listlessly across the table. He burst out in howling, obnoxious laughter that gained irritated looks from other patrons.

"Liar! You're no better than me."

Angel leaned her cue up against the chair.

"Fine, you think so? Want to bet on it?"

He scoffed.

"I'm the one signing your checks, what money do you have to bet with?"

"You don't give me checks."

"It was a euphemism. I was being polite."

She gripped her beer in her hand.

“You win, I’ll tell you my age.”

“And if, by some divine intervention, you win?”

She pressed the rim of the glass against her lips. There were a thousand things that ran through her mind. But more than anything, she wanted to get under his skin.

“That,” she said, pointing at his chest.

He glanced down at his pendant.

“That is not an equivalent wager,” he said with the tiniest edge to his voice.

“So you’re afraid you’ll lose,” she replied, raising her eyebrows.

He clenched his jaw in a strained grin.

"Fine.”

“Fine,” she said. “It’s your turn.”

She grabbed up the cigarette he left burning in the tray and took a long drag, watching him.

It was… strange. Things almost felt normal. Like all of this was something she'd already grown used to. Seeing him, being with him. She enjoyed it more than she wanted to accept.

He took his shot, knocking in the 1, and then shot the 6 just shy of the pocket. He slunk back to the table, giving her a smile.

She moved his cigarette to the corner of her lips and leaned down, lining herself up.

The cue ball cracked against the 6, sending it across the table and knocking it into the 10, which sank right into the pocket. Murdoc’s smile fell. She came past and stuck the cigarette in between his lips.

“So… do you still think I’m no better than you, _ Muds _?”

She knocked his 6 ball around the table, sinking two more of her balls off it while keeping it safely on the felt. He took a long drink. She hustled him.

Her fourth shot didn’t quite make it, and she finally conceded, looking up at him.

“You can try, now.”

“Would it be inappropriate to tell you that you’re giving me a raging hard-on right now?”

She shot him a look, but when she turned around she smiled quietly to herself.

He sunk the 2 and missed just shy of the 4, swearing under his breath. She was better than him. And he was going to lose if he let her keep running him over the table.

If he couldn't win by traditional means, then he'd cheat.

"You seemed interested in my little marriage fantasy, earlier," he said suddenly, leaning on the table. "You want to know how we met?"

She looked up at him. He was volunteering information about himself, unprompted. That instantly made her curious. She nodded.

"Well, it started where all good love stories do—at a strip club. A friend of mine told me he made easy money stripping. Which was right up my alley. And I needed cash. So I went in and the manager had me put on this strappy black number, heels and all. I thought I'd be stripping for birds, you see. Imagine my surprise when I got out there and it was wall-to-wall blokes. Well, I had to make rent that month, so I wasn't going to back out."

Angel watched him, feeling her cheeks growing hot as she pictured him in some black heels.

"I was eighteen and I'd never stripped before, so I was a goddamn mess taking off my skivvies in front of a bunch of blokes. But there was this guy up in front, gods he was beautiful. He tipped me fifty pounds. _ Fifty _, love. Back in the 80's that was a lot of cash. So, naturally I was intrigued. By the cash, and by the stiffy I'd had the whole time he was watching me. I decided to do it again another night, and there he was. Another fifty. I'd gotten a patron."

He flicked out the ashes of his dying cig. Angel had completely forgotten about the game, waiting on his every word. He smirked, lifting his glass to his lips.

"He invited me back to his place. Real nice, real swanky. And he was even more gorgeous up close. Never been with a man before, so gods was I lucky he was older and knew what the fuck he was doing, cause I certainly didn't. Now _ I'm _ the older bloke that knows what he's doing, heh-heh-heh. He bent me right over the sofa and shagged my lights out. Never came that hard before then, unreal. My mind had been opened. And after that, no one was safe from the Niccals charm. It was open season on everyone. We shagged for a good half a year. What an amazing half-year it was. No one's fucked me the same since. He was… special."

He glanced up at her silence, finding Angel standing stiff and staring at him, her hands wrapped hard around the cue.

"Ooh, aren't you turning red."

She snapped to attention and leaned down to take her shot. Murdoc stood up, circling around her.

"Do you like hearing about my sexual exploits, love?" he hummed into her ear, so close behind her that she could feel his pelvis pressing into her hips. "There's plenty more, if that sort of thing gets you off."

She shot the cue ball, missing wide, sending her target ball flying across the table. Angel tensed, turning around to see him an inch away from her face.

"You know you can't win, so you're resorting to guerilla tactics?"

"I do what I have to to stay on top," he said with a wide grin.

She pulled a scowl, stepping aside to let him take his shot.

"So what happened?"

"What's that?"

"Between you and him. What happened that ended it?"

"Oh, I was too much man for him."

He looked over at her unimpressed face. He sighed.

"I happened," he muttered.

The ball clacked hard into the 3 and it sank into the pocket.

"He was shagging me behind his wife's back. Closeted, you know, back then. He didn't have much of a choice. It was that, or get blackballed outta the neighborhood. I never had a reputation to protect, so I got off scott-free, no pun intended. But I was young and jealous and I didn't like that I had to share. So I flitted from guy to guy until he couldn't take it anymore. That was that."

He missed, grimacing.

"Went back to strictly birds for a while afterwards. Couldn't look at another cock without thinking of him."

Angel leaned against the table, watching him. Maybe he really did have a heart buried in there somewhere.

"Well… we all have the one that changes us, don't we?"

He looked up at her, fishing his pack of cigs from his back pocket to light up another.

"That we do." A puff of smoke streamed from his nostrils. "But God, he was big. Nine inches, can you believe? For my first bloke. I was shocked."

"Jesus," she agreed, taking the cue from him.

He smirked, leaning on the table, coming in close.

"I have to know, though. Billy… tiny fish, big pond?"

She snorted.

"He thought he was Goliath. More like David."

"I knew it," he laughed, slapping the tabletop.

Billy had always talked himself up that Murdoc knew he couldn't have been all he said.

"Smaller than me, right?"

Angel might've spiked a fever with how red she turned.

"I… I…"

He rested his chin in his hand.

"You… you…"

She shut her mouth tight, unable to find an escape.

"What percentile of your overall cock experiences would you say I'm in?"

"It's my shot, right?" she asked, setting her beer down.

"Oh, so open about others and so shy about yourself? That's intriguing."

"It's really not. I just don't want to talk about all the people I've fucked in front of my boss," she said, leaning down, her wrist resting against the felt.

"Associate!" he corrected. "It's… what do you call it… water talk!"

"Water-cooler talk," she snorted. "And no, it's not."

She didn't want to count out her short list of lovers compared to his encyclopedia. She'd only had sex with five people, and she didn't even count Murdoc. They just sort of… half-fucked. The irony of him being the sixth, otherwise, was not lost on her.

The ball flew into the 15 and knocked it straight in.

"You should be more concerned about the game you're losing, anyway."

He blinked. Just the 8 was left for her. She jabbed the cue at the back right pocket, calling her shot. Murdoc leaned back, running his fingers along his glass, watching closely. Maybe he could cough, or bump the end of her cue, something to make her miss.

Angel let out a long breath, lining herself up.

"If you have to know," she muttered, "you were the biggest, so far."

The cue ball cracked into the 8 and sunk it, and Murdoc was left staring at the table, all at once incredibly disappointed and incredibly hard.

Angel’s heart banged in her chest as she walked up to him and slid her fingers around the chain of his pendant, slipping it off him. He didn’t move to stop her, watching her loop it around her neck. It fell between her breasts and glinted in the dim light.

“Just on loan for a night,” he muttered.

“Sure, I’ll take pity on you. Now I know what hunters feel like when they hang a trophy on their wall," she snickered.

"Best of three?"

"I don't think that'll do you any good, but you can try."

He cracked a smile.

"Biggest, huh?"

"Go get me another beer, loser," she muttered, stealing the cigarette from between his fingers.

"Jesus Christ, you're robbing me."

"You said I'd be an idiot not to."

He mumbled under his breath, stalking back to the bar.

Her phone vibrated loud against the table, making her jump. It was a UK number she didn't recognize.

Angel picked up, lowering her voice.

"Hello?"

"Angela, my condolences on your kidnapping."

It was Lenore.

"My what?"

"Muds told me he was taking you to some undisclosed location."

"New York's hardly off the grid," she laughed, taking a drag.

Lenore rolled her eyes. He was hiding in plain sight. She jerked back at the loud cracking sound from the other end.

"Where are you?"

"Pool hall. I'm hustling Murdoc for his lunch money."

"You have my unending gratitude."

"So, what's up? You just wanted to make sure I was alive?" Angel chuckled.

"Yes."

Her face fell. Lenore sounded dead serious.

"I wanted to make sure you actually want to be there. I can arrange for you to be picked up and brought back, if you need. The offer's open."

"I mean… I know he's difficult, but—"

"No, you don't understand. He's a lunatic. A fist-fight is one thing. Getting a knife pulled on you because he thinks it's a great idea to steal a baggie of coke from a skinhead in a bar bathroom is another."

Angel looked over at him as he flagged the bartender down.

"I'm… guessing that's a true story."

"I've been his rep a long time, love. I've seen it all. Just… be careful. He tends to play with his toys till they break. So, if you need something, just call me."

"No offense but… why are you helping me? Aren't you in charge of him?"

"I've spent almost fifteen years trying to save him from himself. It's a hard habit to break, unfortunately. Enjoy your game, Angel. Take him for all he's worth."

"Will do," Angel said quietly, hanging up.

_ I've spent fifteen years trying to save him from himself. _

That rattled around in her brain. It was easy to forget how much older he was than her, how much time he'd had before she came along. Fifteen years ago, she was in middle school. And he was winning an MTV award. It made her feel small. The man she was looking at was just the tip of the iceberg, and she had no idea what was underneath. That thought excited and terrified her.

He already knew who he was. Knew what he wanted, knew what he was supposed to do, even if he was completely insane. She felt like she was still trying to walk when he'd already crossed the finish line. It made her feel stuck. She was supposed to be helping him write an album and she couldn't even bear to have him look at her lyrics. Maybe she still was a kid.

And maybe that's how he saw her—a stupid, easily-led kid.

"Here," he said, setting another beer in front of her, breaking her train of thought. "You're buying next, because there's no way I'm losing to you twice."

"I'm turning twenty-nine in two days."

He stared at her, processing what she'd said.

"Fuck, you're old," he snorted.

A wash of embarrassment overcame her, and she didn't know why. It wasn't like she was a child. She was almost thirty. But he was fifty. Suddenly she felt like maybe she was trespassing, like she didn't belong, didn't match with the rest of him. Like dragging your kid sibling along because you had to, not because they were part of the group.

"Oh!" he said suddenly, pulling his phone from his pocket. "Diana told me about this app that—"

"Diana?"

"The bartender. Married, two kids, not available, unfortunately. Keep up, love," he said, snapping his fingers. "Anywayyy, she told me you can use your mobile for the jukebox. Isn't that something?"

Angel held in a laugh, struggling to keep her mouth shut. Everything in that sentence dated him so badly that she barely knew what to say.

"That's really something, Muds."

"You know, I'm going to have to give you a worse nickname if you keep that up," he muttered, scrolling through the song choices.

Angel watching him, smiling. Maybe she didn't have to think about it all so hard. She reached over, making suggestions, trying to let go. He made her laugh, and that's all she cared about.

There wasn't one song that played the next two hours that hadn't been handpicked by the man across the table from her.

He went on and on about almost every one, about where he was when he heard it first, or if he'd met the band, or if they were just a bunch of hacks that got lucky with one good hit. He was thrilled with her love of the Smiths, and quizzed her on old music trivia every time she went to line up a shot. She doubted, sometimes, if he even knew the answers or if he was just making it up as he went.

By the end of the night, they were both belting out every song that came on. They did a rousing rendition of _ White Room _ that made Diana come over and tell them to quiet down or leave.

They slunk back to their table, forfeiting their game, but not without a significant amount of laughing and jeering.

"Anyway," he drawled. "The first time I fooled around with a bird—I'll never forget it—was to _ Rhiannon _. Can't listen to it still without a tear coming to my eye and a sad stiffy popping up. I miss Clara."

She snorted over her beer.

"Oh please, like you don't have a song like that," he goaded.

"It's not Fleetwood Mac, I'll tell you that," she laughed.

Angel flipped her phone over. She had three missed calls, all from the same number.

Murdoc leaned over.

"Oh, someone wants you bad."

"I think it's Lenore," she said.

His face fell.

"Lennie?"

"She called me earlier, asking me if I was being held against my will."

He swallowed.

"And uh… you told her?"

"I told her you locked me in a closet and to send the FBI."

"Don't joke, she might believe you," he muttered.

Her phone buzzed against the tabletop, making them both jump. She reached for it, but Murdoc was quicker, snatching it up in his hand. Angel lunged for it.

“Murdoc, give it.”

He held the phone out at arm’s length, pushing her back. He answered it on speaker.

“Hello, Angela Johnson speaking,” he said with a snorting laugh.

It was silent for a long moment, and they both looked up at the phone.

“... You son of a bitch.”

The color drained from both of their faces.

It was Billy.

Before either of them could collect themselves, he hung up, leaving the both of them frozen in place. Angel was shaking, and Murdoc couldn’t breathe.

“Oh… my god.” She brought her hands to her face, shaking her head. “Oh my god… he’s… he’s going to think I’m with someone else.”

Murdoc watched her with wide eyes, trying his best to keep from hyperventilating. He was frightened for another reason—Billy recognized his voice.

“A-ah, m-maybe that’ll shake him loose, hearing a guy on the other end,” he suggested, but even he didn’t believe that as he said it.

Angel shook her head harder.

“No. No, he’s going to get so much worse.”

She put her cue back, grabbing her things up.

“I-I have to go outside, I need some air.”

Angel rushed out the front door, leaving Murdoc struggling to catch up behind.

She was pacing out front, drawing looks from passer-bys. His fingers fidgeted against each other as he came up alongside her, his brain frying just as much as hers. If Billy was out for blood, Murdoc was much easier to find. All he had to do was do a good internet search and follow the press. Once they got back to the UK, Billy could drop in at any time.

"I can't believe it… I can't believe it,” she said, pacing around him.

He swallowed against his dry throat. Even faking confidence was incredibly difficult.

“Don’t worry about it, he’s over there and we’re over here. Nothing he can do.”

Angel panted, trying to keep herself from panicking.

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right.”

She closed her eyes, sucking in a long breath and letting it go slowly.

"You're right. You kidnapped me just in time, I guess."

"I guess," he said, his fingers fidgeting.

He jumped as Angel's hand came down on his arm. She had a strained little smile on her face.

"Come on, let's go home."

He nodded, watching her as she struggled with herself, trying to keep her cool though she looked like she might have been ready to burst into tears at any second.

_ Home. _ He snorted. She really was an out-of-towner everywhere. He guessed anyplace she was sleeping that night was home. Not that it was much different for him, anymore.

"_Kashmir_."

"What?"

Angel fought to make herself think about anything else as her hands shook and her heart slammed against her ribs.

"That's my first-time song."

"Ooh, that's a good one. Were you sleeping with a fifty year old rocker?"

"Ah, no, an eighteen year old rocker who _ thought _he was a fifty year old rocker."

"Careful, love. I might start to think you have a type."

"Assholes?"

He waggled his finger at her.

"You're so sour, Ange'. You sure you're only twenty-nine?"

"I'm seventy-nine."

"That's more like it."

  
  


Her temporary truce with her nerves ran out when they got back to the room.

Angel couldn't stop thinking about Billy, pacing the penthouse from one end to the other while Murdoc was stretched out in his underwear on the bed, trying to ignore her and sleep.

Her thoughts raced. What was he going to do now? Try to track her down again? Find some way to publicly embarrass her? Follow her home once she got back? He had to be planning something. And he had to know what she'd done, what had happened to his house. He'd skin her alive.

She didn't even really understand what he wanted, anymore. Whether he wanted her back, or just wanted to terrify her. Neither option seemed better than the other.

Her hands shook. She couldn't go back to that.

On her hundredth lap, Murdoc finally sprung up and snatched her by the wrist.

"If you don't knock it off, I'm gonna have to break your legs," he drawled.

"I just… I can't stop thinking about it."

Murdoc sat watching her for a minute, then bent down to his suitcase with a grunt, fumbling around in the dark.

"Here," he grumbled, tossing a bottle of pills at her.

"What is this?"

"Meth, cooked it myself," he said, crawling back into bed. "They're sleeping pills."

"I… I don't—"

"For both our sakes," he muttered. "You're not gonna die."

She was skeptical, but she just wanted to close her eyes and stop thinking about what was rattling around in Billy's head. He laid back down, pressing his face hard into the pillow, hoping that forty-eight awake hours was enough to force him to black out.

She shook the pills idly, staring at the floor, then set the bottle down.

“Do you…” She caught herself, crumpling up, struggling with what to say. “Do you think he’s ever going to stop?”

Murdoc didn’t turn over, and she couldn’t tell if he’d passed out or if he was just ignoring her. She looked out the balcony door at the reflection of the river and the dots of lights from the buildings across the water. The room was bathed in blue, the glow of the city coming in through the glass. It was peaceful, something she would have been enjoying if her intestines hadn't been tied in knots.

“No,” he said suddenly.

Angel let out a breath. She knew the answer already, but it didn’t make her feel any better coming from him.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You can just keep running,” he said. “He can’t follow you everywhere.”

“Maybe.”

“He doesn’t know where you are right now.”

“I’ll just have to live in this hotel forever,” she scoffed.

“You’ve at least got till the album’s done,” he said. “Then you can run off wherever you’d like to. Hide out in the Philippines, if you think that’s far enough away.”

“Running around by yourself gets tiring after a while. After this is over I… I might go back to live with Fran for a little bit. But then… I don’t know. I don’t know if I can stand living in England knowing he could be watching me. I don’t know if I can live like that.”

He stared at her back. She looked like she needed… something. Comfort, he guessed. Reassurance. He wasn't good at either. It didn't come naturally to him.

Besides, what was he supposed to tell her? That it was going to be okay? It wasn't, and she wasn't stupid enough to believe it even if he lied to her. Empty reassurance was worse than just telling the harsh truth.

They were both fucked if he found them.

She felt him shift around and the bedside light flicked on. He came up behind her, his arm reaching around to grab at the cross around her neck. He'd worn it smooth on all its edges from years and years of worry. And now it was tucked between her breasts. He stared at the wall, rubbing the metal with his thumb.

“All I can think about it is what he’ll do when he catches me,” she said quietly.

“You think too much,” he muttered.

“As if you have any room to talk. You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you’re barely hanging on with liquor alone. Those aren’t the habits of someone who thinks too little.”

“You’re awfully presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

He grunted, a rumble in his chest that she could feel against her back. He leaned his chin on her shoulder.

It worried him, too. He'd had great fun levelling his flat when it was anonymous. But it was a different beast, now. Still, he didn't regret it. And despite his fear, he was relishing the fact that Billy knew it was him who had fucked him over. He could enjoy that for now, at least.

But she was on edge, and that made him on edge. He slid his thumb over the cross, leaning into her. She needed something to take her mind off it.

“Maybe you should be thinking about what I’ll do if I catch you,” he purred into her ear.

Angel shuddered, his nails sliding down the center of her chest, grazing her through her shirt.

“I'm worried about my ex coming back to do god knows what, and you're trying to turn it into an opportunity to try to get into my pants?”

“Skirt, actually. You're so goddamn tense. You need to relax."

"You think this is relaxing?"

"It would be if you weren't so painfully stuck-up,” he said against her neck, and she could feel him grinning. “If you’re distracted, then you’ll stop thinking about it. And I'll finally get some sleep. Win-win.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

The hot breath that ran over her neck drove her insane. His bare chest felt so good pressed up against her.

“Let yourself go for a second. You live in tomorrow too much. You should be more like me.”

“Completely shameless?” she said in a voice that sounded less than confident.

“Living in the moment,” he hummed.

His hand slid down her stomach, slipping under the band of her tights as he curled around her, a low, gutteral sound leaving him. She didn't stop him, her back arching into him as his fingers ran over the silky texture of her panties.

“It’ll be hard to think about Billy with my fingers stuffed into you. Come on, let me play with you,” he said in a whine that almost made her laugh.

“You’re such a brat,” she muttered.

That made him grin against her skin.

“You’re the one letting me into your skirt. You could blacken my eye if you wanted to. But I think you like me getting my way, even if you pretend like you don't.”

Her face crumpled.

“Do you think making me mad is going to help you, here?”

His middle finger slid against her, making her grab hard onto his thigh.

“The angrier you get, the more I know what I’m doing is working.”

His nail dragged over her, light and teasing. She squirmed. It wasn’t enough. Her legs spread just enough for him to slip her panties to the side and drag his nail light across her skin. He laughed as she wriggled in his grip.

"What kind of bird are you, I wonder? The innocent type that likes it when I say '_good girl_'?"

She said nothing, legs tensing as he dragged his nails over her clit, riding the line of pain and pleasure.

"No? Didn't think so. You're too proud for that. More the '_dirty slut_' type?"

"That's you," she managed, her breaths starting to come in quick.

He pressed his cheek to her, his stubble scratching against her skin.

"You're right. Then how about…" He threaded his free hand through her hair. "I just want to fuck you so hard that you forget what your name is."

Something in her snapped with his breath in her ear.

Angel turned around, making him let go as she leaned in, kissing him roughly. He laughed into her mouth, running his hands over her hips.

“You gonna let me do you proper, this time?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she snapped.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and eased her down, slipping his hands under her legs to pull her closer to him. He made quick work of sliding her tights off. She could see him hard and straining against his briefs, and the sight made her flush hot.

“You know, you can find out just about everything about a person from how they fuck.” He looked at her, enjoying the way that made her twist up. “It’s the quickest way to get to know someone. People think that’s impersonal, but it’s not. You can lie your arse off to someone's face, but when you're an inch away from cumming, that's the real you. You find out the real shit when someone sticks something in you.”

“What do people find out about you, then?” she said in a strained voice.

Murdoc’s grin was wolfish, beaming ear to ear. He knelt down, flipping her skirt up.

“That I’m completely out of my fucking mind.”

Angel held her breath, watching him. He ran his tongue along his thumb, smiling.

"Your tendency for skirts makes this so much easier."

Her face flushed hot and red as she felt him pull on her hips to bring her closer. He slid her panties down her legs slowly and reached under her skirt, pressing his wet thumb against her in slow circles. Angel’s mouth fell open at his touch.

“You’re awfully wet for someone who’s been putting me off left and right.”

A pang of embarrassment and irritation shot through her.

“Sh-shut up.”

He grinned. There she was, angry and eager.

“Do you want me to? I’ll be quiet if you want. Quiet as a church mouse.”

He stopped, pulling his hand back. She squirmed and clenched her teeth.

“No.”

"No _ what_?"

"Keep talking.”

He snorted a laugh, filling up with self-satisfaction. He was overjoyed, doing what he was to her, seeing her wanting him, listening to him. It was more than he could bear to wait for.

“Good, I’ve got a lot more to say.”

Her breath caught hard, a little grunt slipping out as his hot mouth came down on her. Her hands reached out for his hair, fingers threading through to grip him as the long, flat of his tongue slid slick along her, his hands tight on her thighs. Her legs shook.

"M… Murdoc…"

A low groan rippled through him, echoing in her skin. She seized up, head craning back with labored breaths.

She’d re-imagined this so many times, more than she would have ever admitted, longing to feel his mouth on her again. A few times she caught herself looking at his lips and she could almost feel them on her. In the middle of the night, more than once, she’d reached down to touch herself, to bring some ounce of the feeling back, missing the touch of his long fingers and his tongue, and she'd imagine his voice in her ear.

Angel’s fingers threaded into his hair, holding him to her, desperate for every movement of his mouth. He felt better than she’d remembered and she cursed herself for being so resistant for so long.

She could barely take it when his tongue slipped inside.

"Fuck," she hissed, earning a long moan from him.

He sucked hard and sloppy on her clit, his teeth grazing over her, blurring her vision with a gaping mouth. She looked down at him, and he was watching her with his mismatched eyes and that goddamn smirk of his, and he plunged his tongue deep into her.

Shock flooded her and she tried to wriggle away, but he had her tight and she was already spilling over the edge, unable to stop herself. Her back stiffened, her fingers burying into his hair hard as she came against him with a defeated moan, his hands vices on the back of her legs as he pressed his mouth to her desperately.

He came up from under her skirt, gripping the fabric tight in his fist.

"Christ, already?" he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Missed it that much, huh?"

He tensed up.

She was shivering and panting, her face red with embarrassment and her eyes wet. She looked like she was going to cry.

"I-I'm sorry."

"What the fuck do you have to be sorry for? Oh, Ange', if you don't cum twice, I'm not doing my job right."

She was still shaking as Murdoc leaned over her.

“I’m guessing Billy was a one-and-done kind of bastard?”

The look on her face gave him the answer. He clicked his tongue.

“That’s a shame. I’m not one to turn my nose up at a quick shag, but if I can draw it out, I always will. I'm not done with you yet, don't worry."

He reached for the hem of her shirt, sliding it up to pull it off her. But as soon as he got it over her breasts she locked up.

"D-don't!" she yelped, shrugging him off, her breaths quick and panicked.

He let go, staring down at her. She was shaking, eyes wide, her entire body clenched up tight under him.

"What the hell'd he do to you?"

Angel's eyes flicked back to him.

"He…"

She looked away, unsure if she wanted to tell him. She didn't want to put him off, make him uncomfortable, look at her different. The truth made her feel small and guilty and powerless that she let it happen. But what he'd told her about his father rattled around in her brain.

"He'd… grab my shirt and… wrap it around my neck till he choked me."

Murdoc's stomach sank.

The image of Angel wrapping the collar of Eli's shirt tighter and tighter around his neck till he turned red and couldn't breathe burned into his brain when he looked at her.

Billy was fucking dead if he ever saw him again.

His silence turned her stomach sour. She shouldn't have said anything.

"I don't need your pity," she muttered, glancing away, her voice cold.

"Ah, I don't do pity. I'm just thinking about the sick shit we'll have to do to bang that memory outta your skull."

He fumbled with the band of his briefs, and she felt his cock brush against the inside of her thigh and a long groan left him. He found her hand and brought it to his lips, taking two fingers into his mouth. Angel tensed, shaking at the feeling of his lips wrapped around her, his tongue running along her skin.

"A-ah, you're good at that," she said with a shaking smile.

He pulled her fingers out, dripping with saliva, and slid his tongue between them.

"Lots of practice," he chuckled. "When people call me a _ 'cocksucker' _, it's a term of endearment."

He guided her slick fingers down to wrap around him, making the head of his cock wet. He grunted, taking his hand back, leaving her grasping him hard.

"I can fuck you just as well with your clothes on," he grunted.

He slipped his hand under her hip, pushing her to one side to get her to roll her over onto her front. Angel froze, pressing her hands into the mattress. This position never ended well for her. He could feel her tensing up.

He leaned over her, breathing heavy into her ear and pulling her hair away from her face. He gathered her skirt up in his fist.

"Stay here, love. I can feel you going someplace else."

Angel squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn't Billy. This wasn't the same.

For a moment she put complete trust in him, letting go.

Murdoc pushed into her, the groan in his chest vibrating against her back. Her mouth fell open, eyes opening as she felt him move in her.

His body curled around her, enveloping her in the dark. He didn't thrust into her mindlessly like she was used to. He gave her deep, methodical strokes that made her languid. She felt… safe underneath him, in a way she couldn't explain. Relief flooded her, and she boiled over with desire with every movement.

He dug his nails into her shoulder, pushing himself in as deep as he could, an uncontrollable smirk spreading across his face.

“Christ,” he laughed. “We should’ve done this the minute we met.”

Angel’s mouth fell open in desperate breaths, the feeling of him overwhelming. It was difficult to make herself talk.

“I’m… sure… that would have went well… in that closet,” she struggled.

“This is the cure-all. If you can’t fuck it away, it’s unfixable.”

He reached under her hips, his middle finger pressing into her clit hard. Her back arched up into his chest and his legs tensed around her. 

"When you cum, I don't want no half-measures. Full name only. No '_ Muds _ '_. _ I want to hear the whole thing come outta yer mouth."

Murdoc gripped the headboard, watching her laid out flat against the bed under him. He couldn't wrangle his smirk.

"You've got no idea what you're doing to me, looking like that. Frigid Ange', all melted down," he chuckled. "It's almost too much."

She pushed her back against him, forcing him off, and reached around, struggling her shirt off over her head, gasping. She was flushed and red and overheating, coated in sweat. Her skin was red hot under him.

He ran his hand up her naked back and leaned down, sliding his tongue up her spine and blew on the wet trail he'd left behind. She clenched up around him, the cold snap of air against her back making her tense up. He wrapped her hair around his fist, pulling it away from the back of her neck as he laid flush against her, pushing into her hard.

She was exhausting herself for him, bucking her hips up into him with every stroke, losing herself, uncaring about what she looked like, about how she sounded.

His mouth fell open in quick breaths. She was so desperate for him. So undone. He wanted to give her everything, anything to make her keep wanting him like that.

"D'you want me to finish you?" he said in a low, husky voice she barely recognized.

"Yes," she breathed.

He reached underneath her, dragging his fingers across her clit. They slid to the base of his cock, getting slick and wet, and he pushed them inside her. The added width made her cry out, her spine curving into his chest. He panted, gripping onto her shoulder as he plunged his fingers in alongside his cock, filling her, overwhelming her. His wrist pressed hard into her clit, rubbing against her with every stroke. The vulgarity of what he was doing made her pant harder, her eyes glazed and unfocused.

"Augh, Christ, let me hear it. Let me hear my name outta yer wet little mouth. I'll do anything."

"M-Murdoc…"

"God, say it again," he moaned, his other hand digging into her shoulder. "Yer gonna make me cum from that alone."

"Murdoc," she hissed, clenching.

"You're so close." His fingers pushed in with every deep stroke he gave her. "I can feel you getting tight. Just let go. Let me get you there. Give me that."

She closed her eyes tight, jaw clenched hard.

"Don't turn away," he grunted. "I want to see what Billy never got to."

He brushed away the hair that stuck to her sweating skin, leaning down to look at her unraveled face.

"Let me see you," he breathed. "You look so pretty when you cum. Just fucking unreal."

Her hand snatched his, squeezing so tight he thought there was something wrong. But when Angel opened her eyes and looked back at him, her fingers clinging hard to him and the sheets, he saw the raw desperation in her eyes and it drove him closer.

She panted hard. The feeling of his cock and his fingers and the sound of his voice in his ear made her spill over, unable to hold herself back.

"Beautiful girl."

"Mur… ahh—!"

A moan burst from her, keening and desperate, her whole body going rigid. His face softened, mouth falling open, his eyes searching her, taking all of her in.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice going hoarse with a loud groan.

He thrust into her hard, nails sinking in as he came into her, Angel melting around him.

He laid flush against her, panting into the crook of her neck. His fingers slipped out of her, his hand laying open and shaking, slick and dripping, his wrist all locked up. Angel just laid limp, unable to say anything at all. She'd never cum so hard before. It left her shaken and breathless. And she knew she could never admit that to him. It would quadruple his ego and she didn't think she could take that.

They were both covered in sweat, overheated and shuddering. She didn't want to move, didn't want to break this spell over the both of them. But she was so hot, she couldn't take it anymore.

She pushed against him till he rolled off and shakily got to her feet, stumbling as she made her way to the bathroom.

The shower burst on from behind the door.

Murdoc rolled over and grabbed his jeans, pulling out his pack of cigs, lighting up and laying flat on his back with his eyes closed. Christ, she felt good. She was eager and warm and overflowing. It made him feel alive when he was in her.

Ten years ago, he would've followed her in and done her again right in the shower. But even he knew he wasn't as quick to load the gun again as he used to be. He blew out a lazy stream of smoke from between his teeth. Maybe tomorrow morning, though…

His knee ached, but he just didn't care. He didn't care about much of anything besides the heady rush of nicotine and the still fresh feeling of her skin against him. Everything else was a wash.

He grabbed up his phone idly from the bedside table. There was an email from Lenore waiting for him.

He sat up, flicking out his ashes.

It was a copy of the contract.

He stared down at his phone, eyes scanning the lines fast. The terms were… not great. Rick had him over a barrel and he knew it.

He couldn't have cared less about what he got for himself—the only thing he wanted was to get out of the contract he was already in. But he'd been cut a hefty portion of the royalties, per Lenore's request, he was sure. So what was left for Angel was low, to say the least.

He exhaled a burst of smoke.

Maybe that would play better for him. If she got a smaller cut it might be easier to convince her that she was just signing over demos. Billy had already pulled one over on her easily enough. She had loved Billy, though, which had helped him pull off his little magic trick of making her music disappear and reappear in his hands.

His nails drummed along the back of his phone.

He'd be doing the same thing as Billy, publishing her music behind her back under the cover of darkness. But this was different. At least she knew she was making music for him. She just didn't know it would actually be her on the final mix. It wasn't really lying, it was just twisting the truth.

_Just tell her the truth._

He snorted. Lenore didn't understand the position he was in. If he told the truth, he guessed it was a fifty-fifty chance she'd walk away. Writing for someone else was radically different from being on the frontline. And he was sure that kind of publicity wasn't going to sit well with her after being under Billy's spotlight for so long.

He couldn't take that chance, even if that meant tricking her.

It was better this way for the both of them. Well, at least for him.

Besides, he thought, it didn't matter what she thought of him after. As long as he was out from under that rock. She was going to walk away, anyway, so what did it matter what he did?

He just had to get her to sign it.

He locked his phone as soon as the door creaked open, sitting up.

Angel looked at him from the doorway, a towel wrapped around her and her skirt in her fist.

He watched her walk over to her suitcase and hurry a shirt and new panties onto herself, facing away.

It was back to proper Ange', he guessed. That was a shame. He wished she'd climb into his lap so he could get a good look at the front of her and run his hands over her ass. His pendant caught the dim light as she pulled it out from under the shirt, and his eyes locked onto it.

She got into bed in a hurry, caught between wanting to talk to him and wanting to be a thousand miles away. There was nowhere to get away, nowhere to run to avoid him. He was right there. And he was going to keep being right there for as long as they were here.

She didn't know what to say, what to do. There was no relationship, here. No protocol. What were you supposed to do after having your boss's dick in you? Things weren't much different than before. They had already messed around. But this felt different. She didn't know if there was any going back from that.

She moved to take off his pendant and he waved her away.

"A bet's a bet. You get it for a night."

He stamped out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot beside the bed and reached over to shut off the light, letting out a long sigh. She stared at him in the darkness while he fussed around.

She leaned over him, brushing away the bangs from his face, and kissed his temple gently.

"Thanks for the distraction… _ Muds _."

"I'm going to kill you in your sleep," he muttered, eyes closed.

Angel grinned and turned away.

It would be fine.

She just had to ignore the pain in her chest that made her want to tell him something stupid.

She just had to ignore it, and everything would be fine.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angel's song is "The Girl That You Lost to Cocaine" by Sia.

When he woke up next to Angel, it set something off in him.

He didn't wake up suddenly, coated in sweat from a nightmare, or restlessly tossing and turning from the frustration of not being able to stay asleep. He woke up slow, dozing in and out, his mind and body unwilling to get up. But when he felt something move against him, his eyes shot open.

His arm and leg were thrown over Angel, gripping her tight to him, his cheek pressed against her shoulder. He panicked, unsure of how to untangle himself without waking her up.

But what shocked him more than the undignified look of him cuddled up to her like a child, was how much he didn't want to move.

She was warm under him, her face soft and her lips parted. Her hair laid under his face, all silky and blue, and as he looked, he could see some dark strands in between. He wanted to run his fingers through it. He wanted to stay tangled with her in the grey light of dawn and go right back to sleep.

That frightened him.

He forced himself to draw away, slipping himself from around her and sliding backward out of bed, his eyes trained on her. She shifted, turning on her side.

His heart banged in his chest.

He had to get out for a bit. He was getting too comfortable, too sloppy with what he let her see.

He was gone by the time she was awake. Where, she had no idea. Even out of the country, he somehow managed to find someplace to disappear to. She sat, staring out the balcony door, her body unwilling to crawl out of bed.

Night one, and she’d already done what she told herself not to. She hadn’t been able to help it, she told herself. She needed something, anything. Any kind of distraction she could get. And Murdoc was good at making himself an unignorable spectacle.

And she’d made even more of a fool of herself than she had before. She just gave in, laid herself out flat and let him do whatever he wanted. She'd wanted him to.

She slapped her face.

Not again, no more. Just work. Just work and no more playing around. She was kicking around a bomb and it was just a matter of time until it blew up in her face. She needed to let it be. But she couldn’t stop thinking about his body, the way he touched her. No one had ever touched her like that—like he would die if he didn’t. When he looked at her, it was like she had no place to hide. He reached right in and ripped out what was inside, whether she wanted him to see it or not. Like he really knew her, who she really was and not who she tried her damnedest to be.

He didn’t, she thought to herself. She was just seeing what she wanted to see. He didn’t think anything of her. She was just within arm’s reach. She was just convenient.

Angel reached down, the pendant still around her neck, and her fingers rubbed over the smooth metal in worry.

_No more_, she repeated to herself.

She slipped it from around her neck and played it down on his bedside table.

Murdoc must have made an early-morning trip that she slept through, because sitting on the bar in the living room were several bottles of liquor, and he'd already busted out his travel bar set, an empty martini glass resting beside. She peeked into the cocktail shaker—it smelled like gin.

The bottles were all lined up in a row. Gin, vodka, whiskey, rum, two kinds of vermouth, ouzo, and a sickly green bottle of absinthe. All of Murdoc's essentials, she guessed.

Their equipment was finally delivered to the room while she was getting dressed—the amps, some recording equipment, a laptop, a stereo, wires and plugs and headsets all came up.

They had everything they needed. Minus food, which Murdoc didn't seem to think was necessary, anyway.

Everything was set.

But everything still felt wrong.

She hurried and blocked Billy’s new number on her phone, double-checked all of her accounts online, even texted Fran to see if she’d heard anything from him. She hadn’t.

Everything was the same. But it wasn’t.

Billy was worming his way back in.

And so was Murdoc.

The more time she spent with him, the more she became used to him, his company, his attitude. And the more she wanted to see him. It was unsettling.

Nothing was the same, anymore. Nothing was simple. Even the city felt different. It somehow changed, too, while she was away. She'd changed. It felt as if everything had been pulled out from under her overnight and now she was left scrambling to pick up pieces of herself and cobble together some normalcy, some consistency she could cling onto. And the closest thing to grab was Murdoc.

But she couldn't let that be him. She had to grab onto something else. If it couldn't be anything else, it had to be her work.

She leaned on the railing of the balcony, tempted to pull her shoes on and disappear for a while. But there was a reason they were here, and she still had a job to do, if she could even call it that.

Murdoc leaned his head back against the bench, the burning sun heating him through.

A sense of urgency boiled in him as he watched people pass by idly. He had to get all his ducks in a row. There was the problem of getting her album in the bag, but he also had to prepare for her to leave. She'd made it clear she wasn't planning on sticking around. Once she was gone, he needed to figure out what to do. He needed the others.

He'd managed to track down Russel's parents in Brooklyn, going off a very vague memory of when he… _persuaded_ Russel to join the band, and snippets of the few personal things he'd let slip over the years.

He was also lucky there weren't many "Hobbs" to go through in the neighborhood.

But it seemed Russel’s parents also had no idea where he was, which both pleased and horrified him.

He’d already tried ‘D’s parents before, but it wasn’t surprising that they’d gone so long without hearing from him. It also wasn’t surprising that his mother gave Murdoc a hard slap on the mouth before shutting the door in his face.

But Russel was a momma’s boy, and his parents didn’t completely hate Murdoc's guts. And if they didn’t know where he went off to, that meant Russel might have been in real shit. But it also meant he might not have been icing him out, specifically.

He didn’t know how to feel.

He dialed Noodle’s number for the thousandth time, waiting impatiently as it rang through to her voicemail.

"_Moshi, moshi, it's Noodle! Leave a message!"_

“Noods, I’ve got no fuckin’ clue if you’re even getting these, but… I went to go see Russ’s folks and they’ve got no clue where he’s at. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it.” He bounced his leg, gritting his teeth. “For Christ’s sake, call me back.”

Her notebook slapped hard onto the table, her hands clamping hard into fists.

It was the perfect time to work. No distractions, not even Murdoc. She could get a jump-start on it, which would leave more time to run around the city at night.

But she was coming up empty. Nothing sounded right, all forced and cramped and heavy-handed. It hurt to read the words she wrote. She paced, pouring herself another drink as her feet took her in circles around the room. She was happy for the time alone at first, but now it made her nervous.

She couldn't come up with anything. And even the things she'd already written seemed contrived and overeager.

Now that she was supposed to turn it on on command, nothing came out.

She hadn't been able to write anything in a while. Nothing she liked, at least. All of her lyrics were old, or written in spurts that never seemed to some together with a melody. It was her environment, she thought, back in the UK, constantly in a state of flux. But even now, back on home-turf, she was dried out.

With Billy, she'd written more than she ever had in her life. And he took it all. Even what she'd never finished. Hearing her voice on tracks she never intended to release was like a knife in the back, singing words of love that she wished she could stick back in her mouth. Of everything he'd done, that might have been the worst.

And now she had to start over.

She stole one of Murdoc's cigarettes and watched the boats pass smoothly over the river, swishing the amber liquid around in the glass.

She shouldn't have been torturing herself, she knew. His deadline wasn’t hers. She could do whatever she wanted to, let Murdoc do the heavy lifting and just stick to doing the demo vocals and guitar and leave the rest to him. It wasn’t like he didn’t have any ideas of his own. She was just there as a placeholder, anyway. Trying too hard would be like breaking her back for an unpaid internship—there was no point.

But that wasn't enough. She wanted to. She wanted to see if she could do it.

And maybe she couldn't.

The whiskey burned her throat. She took a long breath in through her nose. It was just the first day. It would get better. She just had to write something, even if it wasn't good.

One more drink, and she’d get back to it.

The balcony door was thrown open when he came back, and the speakers were turned up loud, jazz playing smooth in the dimming light. And Angel was leaning on the banister in her shirt and underwear.

“This is not what I thought I’d be coming back to, but I’m thrilled to pieces.”

She stood up straight, not looking at him as she turned around to walk back inside. The sway in her step made him stop. His eyes lit up as he tossed his phone and keycard away onto the couch.

“Are you drunk?” he laughed.

She lifted the empty glass tumbler in her hand to him.

“Yes, I am.”

“Ohhh, I’m never the sober one. What should I do? Give you a scolding? Act indignant? I’ve got to take advantage of the turned tables.” He puffed himself up and put on a gruff voice. “You’re so irresponsible. I can’t believe you. Augh, that feels wrong, I don’t like it.”

He realized she was still walking towards him and he froze stiff as she languidly wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Thanks for bringing me here, Murdoc. Really. It feels good to be back. It would feel better if I hadn't come back a complete and utter failure, but that's not your fault!"

“Uhh…” His hands hovered over her, his nerves firing as he searched around for an out. “You’re sentimental when you’re drunk.”

“That’s why I don’t get drunk.” She knocked on her skull, pulling away. “There’s nothing in there. Not a thing. Can't write, can't think of anything. I'm completely empty.”

“Maybe you haven’t drank enough,” he snorted.

“Maybe,” she drawled, poking his chest, “I’ve hit my peak. Maybe I’m dried out. I used up all my good stuff on Billy and now I’ve got nothing left in the tank.”

He scoffed. He wasn’t used to being the one of sound mind.

“You have any idea how many times I haven’t been able to make anything? I’ve got a few years on you. You’ll be fine.”

She jabbed a finger at him, her eyes glazed.

“That’s because you’re a prof… professional.”

He couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“Professional tequila-shooter and coke-snorter.”

“Maybe that’s my problem. I’m too tight-laced. That’s what you said.”

“You could use loosening up, yeah.”

“Oh, no dirty comment?”

“Thought you might get testy,” he teased, giving her a little shove that made her stumble to the side.

He walked over to the little makeshift bar, shaking the bottle of whiskey.

“Shit, you really put it away,” he muttered.

He poured himself a glass and followed her out to the balcony, watching the little black waves of the river ripple in the reflection of the setting sun. She grew quiet.

“I’m not myself anymore.”

“You’re just shitfaced.”

“No, I mean… I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“None of us do.”

“You do.”

Whiskey shot up his sinuses, making him hack into the glass. He slapped his hand on his chest, the vapor making his eyes water.

“You’ve… got to be kidding.”

“I’m not. You know who you are. You know what you like, what you don’t like. You want something, you get it. You know what you need to do, and you do it, even if you drag your feet the whole time. I don’t…” She shook her head. “I don’t even know what I want, what I like, what I don’t. I don’t know myself anymore. I’m afraid of everything. I still watch my back, and it hasn’t gotten any better. I'm still afraid of him with an ocean between us."

She looked down at her hands.

“I destroyed the only little bit of progress I made for myself when I walked away from the band. At least I was making something, publishing something. I felt like I was progressing, in some way at least. I've been dry for a while. I've only really written a few songs since him. That little song for Fran, a few other things that never really seemed to come together. Everything good… he took. Every goddamn love song, every word I wrote. I was too stupid to get the rights to my own fucking voice."

She flicked her cigarette butt out from between her fingers and it sailed down off the edge of the balcony as she hung her head. Murdoc clenched his glass.

"Can't even play my own goddamn songs at a gig. He owns them. Now that all of that’s gone I just feel… lost. Like I’m just floating and I’ve got nothing left to give. I just… I don’t know what to do.”

“Welcome to the club,” he muttered. “Look at the two of us—kicked out of our own bands and washed up. We’re two old souls.”

“One of us is. The other’s just old.”

“Fair,” he grunted.

He froze, his lips hovering over the rim of the glass.

“It’s your birthday, tomorrow.”

“Cheers.”

He snorted, clinking his glass against the empty one still clutched in her fingers.

“What are you now, again? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Cute.”

“You’re not fifty, so spare me the lamenting over your age.”

Angel was just staring out at the river.

"Sorry," she muttered. "I think you hired the wrong girl. I don't know if I can do this."

He cleared his throat.

“You want Funny Muds or Pensive Muds? Or, my personal favorite, Slutty Muds.”

“Whichever one has better advice.”

He took a long drink, staring out at the boats passing.

“I didn’t start Gorillaz until I was six years older than you are now. And I was a fucking mess. I didn't have two goddamn pence to rub together. I was driving an Astra, for godsakes. I mean, I stole it, but that's not the point. That's how I met 'D, actually. Hit his noggin off the bumper.”

Her head snapped up and he waved her off.

“Ah, he’s fine. Sort of. The kid can take a hit. That’s one for another time. My point is, you _have_ time. You’re going to make a lot of shit before you make something you like. Accept it. Do it anyway. Make garbage. Make shit even if no one wants you to. Even if you don’t want to. Annoy the world with what you’re doing and don’t sit down.”

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he looked over at her, his face soft and his eyes easy. It was startling to see him so calm.

“You know, you’re pretty nice when you’re not acting like an overblown ass.”

“Ha, as if you’re the first one to tell me that. Being nice is overrated. That’s how you get stepped on, love. Become a bitch, like me, and dole out niceness to those very precious few that deserve it. You’ll see how many people actually like you, then.”

“Am I one of those precious few?”

“The jury’s still out on that one. I don’t hate you, so be happy with that."

He rattled the ice in his glass.

"People think there’s just forward and back. You’re either going towards something, or you’re backtracking. You're either progressing, or failing. Sometimes it’s good to go sideways, you know?”

She looked at him, thinking about that.

Going sideways…

He cleared his throat.

“As far as Billy goes,” he muttered, putting effort into not calling him by his nickname. “The biggest fuck you is throwing yourself in their face. Be annoying. Be a little prick. Do what you want. They always want to see you bearing some cross, they love to see they’ve affected you. He wants you to sit down like a quiet little schoolgirl and keep your mouth shut, like he owns you. Don't. Be fucking unbearable. He's nothing, so stop dragging him around with you. You’ve got a lot on your plate, so scrape that shit off and start over.”

He stole a quick glance at her from the corner of his eye and turned to her. She was staring out at the water with big, fat tears sliding down her face.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Don’t make me deal with tears, love. I’m no good at that. I’ll definitely make you cry harder.”

She swayed on unstable feet to hurry back inside. He twisted around, watching her run to the notebook splayed open on the table and flick through it furiously.

He leaned in the doorway, looking at her quietly. She was scratching something out, writing and rewriting, her lips moving quietly.

"Am I your muse, Ange'?" he laughed as her eyes jumped over the lines. "I do have that effect on people."

She circled the table, scratching something down on the paper held tight in her fist, muttering to herself.

Her head shot up to look at him.

“There’s a piano in the lobby.”

She'd seen it on her way back in the night before. The white Yamaha sat untouched and silent as Angel hurried down to it in her shirt and socks, pantsless and with Murdoc trailing behind, his drink still clutched in his hand. The concierge barely glanced up as they passed.

“You play?”

“Not well,” she admitted, sitting down a little too hard on the bench, making it screech back against the tile floor. “I learned from a friend when I was a kid. But just enough to make noise. You think we’re going to bother anyone?”

“Fuck ‘em. No one ever plays these things, it’s good to make it do what it was meant to.”

“You’re a regular poet, tonight.”

He leaned on the sleek body of the piano, resting his glass on top.

“You’ve infected me with sentimentality. It’s repulsive.”

She set up the notebook on the music stand, fumbling with it until she got it to stay, her pen jammed behind her ear. She struggled with her phone to turn on the recording.

The thing was plunky and out of tune from years of neglect, but she could make a sound and that was enough. Her eyes were closed, her head spinning. Her voice echoed through the marble foyer, carrying loud and long through the room.

_“I've stuck around through thick and through thin. You cannot deny I've always been in._”

Her fingers moved clumsily over the keys. She grimaced. It was hard to make her hands do two things at a time, her brain scattered and loose and thick with liquor. He nudged her, sitting on the bench beside her, his hands taking over.

“You play?”

“I’m more than just a pretty face, love. Just keep going.”

She moved his fingers over the keys, trying to get him to the chords she wanted. He stumbled into a rhythm.

“_I've been your crutch, your smell, sight, and touch. I took you home when you've drunk too much_.”

Her whole body moved as he settled in.

“_But I can't survive with you by my side_.” She shot him a little smile. “_I'll never get laid while I'm running your life_.”

Murdoc shook his head, but he was grinning.

“_No, I just don't wanna, so I'm walking away. There is nothing that you can do, I will not stay. No, I don't need drama, so I'm walking away. Yeah, I am a girl with a lot on her plate_.”

They sat side by side, Murdoc slipping the pen from behind her ear and scribbling down notes in her book as she babbled to him, trying to explain herself in clumsy, drunk words.

They were dead to the rest of the world, not noticing that they’d gathered a small crowd of guests in their pajamas hovering around the lobby. They were in another world, a small space that opened up where, for once, they were completely at ease and liquid, working late into the early hours till the sky went dusty with the hazy light of dawn.

They stood out on the balcony together, Angel's head finally clearing with her second cup of coffee.

Murdoc lit up his morning cigarette.

Things were… actually working. Actually going according to plan. He wasn't used to that. Usually when he was making an album, it was an intense tangle of opinions and arguments and clashing egos that eventually turned into something incredible after horrifying pressure was applied.

But this was different.

Maybe it was because she was overly agreeable. Maybe he was changing, though he doubted it. But there was a relief of pressure that surprised him. She was trying to prove something to him, instead of the reverse. No one had ever tried to get him to like what they made before. It was usually him fighting tooth and nail for what he wanted. It was almost unsettling.

Maybe this could work. Maybe she would actually agree to the contract willingly. She seemed happy enough to be writing, happy enough to be working. Though even by his own admission, other people's happiness had never blipped too hard on his radar, so he could have been wrong.

He rubbed his thumb against the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat.

"Do you, uh… do you think you'd want to do an album? Just you?"

He grimaced. That was too blunt.

She stared at him, then cracked a smile, laughing. His stomach turned.

"Ah, no, I don't think so. I'm not used to that kind of pressure. I don't like working alone. Having people's eyes on me and just me… that was Billy's bag. He liked the attention. That's not why I like doing this. I don't really care about money or having my name out there. I just… want to play with people I like. I like the chemistry of it. It's companionship. The rest is… too much. I'd be perfectly happy playing rowdy no-name basement bars for beer money for the rest of my life."

She snorted.

"That's naive, huh? I know I can't make music without something to support myself. But that's the dream isn't it, haha."

She watched the river sparkle with golden light as the sun crested over the reflection of the city.

"At least I'm getting to do what I want right now," she said softly. "Afterwards… I have no idea."

He gripped the railing hard.

He was right. There was no way she was going to agree to this willingly.

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," he muttered, flicking his ashes over the side of the balcony. "Most people would kill for a solo career."

Angel leaned her head in her hand.

"Maybe someday. Maybe if the situation is right. If all this shit with Billy settles down. The more in the spotlight I make myself, the faster he'll find me. And… I don't think I'm ready for that, yet. I know I need to face it, but… I'm just enjoying this. For once."

She ran her thumbs against the sides of her cup.

"Thank you."

He glanced up, the cig hanging from his lips.

"For what?"

"For asking me to do this. You've got no idea how much I missed working with someone else. It's helping me, a lot. I thought maybe I couldn't do it anymore after so much time alone. But I feel… good."

A knot twisted in his gut, and he took a heavy drag, his eyes locked on a water taxi slowly drifting through the golden current.

"Happy Birthday, love."


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel's song in this chapter is "Dilettante" by St. Vincent (who is Angel's ideal voice casting).

A week passed in relative peace.

Then two.

And they slipped into a sort of strange equilibrium, something calmer than either of them were used to. Some fragile balance that felt unfamiliar and, in the back of their minds, it made the both of them nervous that at any moment it was going to slip away.

Angel sat by the balcony, scratching out songs line by line, idly picking at her Telecaster.

Murdoc smoked and babbled and drank and paced and looked over her shoulder. And occasionally he'd sling his bass over his shoulder and play along with her, or nit-picked about lyrics.

Sometimes they'd play anything they could think of. Murdoc leaned heavy on Black Sabbath and Angel's fingers moved over lines of the Smiths.

And sometimes they just played until they fell into something that felt right.

They scattered pages across the floor and walked around them carefully. Murdoc took her words and picked them apart and she sewed them up until they cobbled together something playable.

She put tunes to whatever she could think to write, singing quietly to the river as the sun climbed over the sky.

Murdoc couldn't believe his luck.

Everything was working out just the way he'd set it.

The ever-approaching problem of the contract was locked behind a door in the back of his mind. He'd burn that bridge when he came to it.

For the moment, he found himself delicately placated with liquor, work, and getting Angel flustered with the occasional, well-timed vulgar flirt.

He was just waiting nervously for the other shoe to drop. Nothing stayed this even-keeled for this long. But for the moment, he let things unfold, winding his little toy up and watching her run around.

The more time they spent together, the more Angel felt like she was finally starting to understand him, at least a little, in some surface-level way.

As chaotic as he was, she realized Murdoc was also a creature of habit.

Every morning, he got up, smoked a cigarette on the balcony, went out to get a coffee, came back, smoked another cigarette, and quickly and quietly ate something he'd bought while he was out. She knew that because there was always a new wrapper in the trash next to his coffee cup. She knew he had to eat to stay alive, but the way he managed to dodge her seeing him was both impressive and upsetting.

Then, every evening that they weren't out, he'd pour himself a drink and read the news on his phone with his sixth or seventh cigarette of the day burning out between his fingers on the balcony. He had little black-rimmed reading glasses he only used for that, and she could sense it was something he wouldn't enjoy having fun poked at, so she resisted for both their sakes. She went out to sit with him, once, and got him wrapped up in a conversation about parallel universes that kept him talking until two in the morning.

She was almost always asleep before him, laid out on the couch or curled up in bed, and he was still pacing, smoking, drinking, and staring out at the water into the early hours of the morning. And eventually he'd crawl into bed and pass out. And then he was usually already awake by the time she got up. Three or four hours, she guessed, was about how much he slept. That would have killed her, but it seemed normal for him.

He usually slept laid out flat on his front, but a few times she woke in the middle of the night to find him tangled up around her, his arm and leg thrown over her side, his face buried in her hair. And she didn't move him.

He had horrible nightmares, jolting awake in the middle of the night, hyperventilating and trembling, sometimes screaming. About what, she didn't know. He refused to talk about them. His instinct to deal with it, it seemed, was for him to grab the nearest bottle of anything and slog it all down to drift into a delirious half-sleep to numb himself. After the first two times, Angel started getting up with him, and they would walk the streets in the dead of night, her half asleep and him jumpy and on edge, until the both of them were too beat to keep going and collapsed back into bed in the hotel room.

He talked to himself, too, when he thought she was asleep. Most of the time she couldn't understand him, but sometimes she caught snippets. Usually he was walking in circles in the other room, babbling about his old bandmates—admonishing some wrong they'd committed against him, or lamenting something he should have done differently. Sometimes he went off on long, one-sided philosophical dialogues, almost arguing with himself. She listened to him debate whether dark matter was possible or a load of rubbish for about two hours, like he was giving a TED Talk to the walls. It was embarrassingly funny to listen to, and strangely relaxing to hear his voice, droning on and on about the gravitational effects of black holes on the universe. It made her realize just how smart and completely batshit crazy he was, the more she listened. And she never said a word to him about it.

There was one night, though, that woke her straight up out of bed—the sound of a glass smashing against the wall. She shot to her feet, bleary-eyed and panicked, terrified—for a moment—that someone had broken into the room. But it was Murdoc, cradling his head on the couch next to a dangerously drained bottle of rum, his glass in pieces across the room.

She quietly approached him, carefully placing her hand on his shoulder and he jerked away, huge tears rolling down his face that shocked her. He got up with a stumble and started off on an eraged rant about how he didn't deserve to be "left behind".

Angel sat on the couch and listened to him scream about how 2D "never appreciated" all he'd done for him, and Russel always thought he was better than him, and how Noodle just disappeared into thin air without a word. The last one seemed to be what was making him fall apart.

He'd apparently left hundreds of voicemails and texts to her over the course of the six months he'd been out of prison, none of which ever went answered. But she never blocked him, never changed her number.

"What the fuck does that mean?!"

Angel shook her head.

"Maybe… she doesn't know what to say."

She knew he didn't want an answer, he didn't want advice. He just wanted to scream. And she could understand that. It was what she wanted to do, often, but kept her mouth shut instead out of habit.

She managed to get him to ease enough for him to lay across her lap, fuming and raving as she ran her fingers through his bangs. She listened until he eventually cried his eyes dry, yelled his throat sore, and passed out as the sun just started to creep up.

Neither of them said a word about it after, and Murdoc seemed in higher-than-usual spirits the next day.

The only time she ever had to really yell at him was when he decided to turn a wall in the living room into a dart board with a sharpie and the knife he kept in his boot. When she came back to the room and saw him flicking the blade into the wall from the couch, she erupted, scaring the absolute shit out of him as she towered over the sofa.

"Someone has to come in here and fix that when we leave! Are you out of your mind?!"

His face crumpled up and he shrugged, shaking his head.

"So what? I'll pay for it."

"That's not the fucking point! You're making more work for someone else because you're bored! I'll take you out and play darts with you right now, if you want! You just had to ask!"

At that, his face grew red and he stuttered out some snarky remark that wound the both of them up in a shouting match that snowballed into the both of them retreating to opposite sides of the penthouse, quietly seething for an hour.

Then, slowly, Angel's anger melted away and she dragged her feet over to Murdoc chain smoking on the balcony and silently wrapped her arms around him from behind, leaning her chin on his shoulder.

"Sorry," she admitted.

She knew he wouldn't apologize. He didn't. Not ever, about anything. Even when he knew he was wrong.

"Glad you've seen the error of your ways," he muttered.

She squeezed him tight in a warning.

"Don't push it."

Murdoc flicked the ashes from his cig and tucked it behind his ear, turning around in her grip.

"You know, you could make it up to me for your violent outburst," he purred.

That was as close to an apology as he could muster—she knew he meant _he'd_ make it up to her.

"How about I don't kill you, and we go play real darts so I don't have to throw that knife at you?"

"I could settle for that," he muttered.

And it was over.

She was starting to understand him, just a little bit.

He was becoming a real person to her, and not just this walking shadow of anger and lust and raw nerves. His outbursts and mood swings were intense and unpredictable, but there was always something real underneath. More often than not, he seemed like a middle-aged guy constantly walking a tightrope of normalcy and insanity. A guy who she was becoming frighteningly used to.

They paced and wrote and played all day, and ran around the streets like rats at night. Sometimes just one or the other, but unusually often, it was both.

They drank at bars, shot pool, Angel even dragged him along to a no-name band's punk show that he begrudgingly admitted he "didn't hate", and he took her to a jazz club that she very much didn't hate.

It was an unassuming little place in the basement of an Italian restaurant, which apparently Murdoc had stumbled upon during his last visit to the city almost six years ago. But it was still there—old-school, all red velvet and circular booths and low lamplight that made the smoke from the patrons cast a hazy gloom throughout the bar.

It didn't fit the image, she thought, of his hard-and-fast attitude, or his penchant for tequila shots and rum runners. And he stood out like a sore thumb in his leather jacket and his tight jeans. But he settled right in, comfortable as could be, as if he never left. They ordered martinis and he went on and on about musicians he'd played with and how there wouldn't be any rock music without jazz. And Angel listened. She enjoyed listening. And he seemed all-too-eager to talk. He'd found a willing ear—one that didn't want something from him, or drifted away into a coma as he jabbered on. She found herself, surprisingly, enjoying his company.

And things felt… strangely normal.

Except for the handful of times Murdoc was recognized.

Once at a bar, once on the metro, and once on the street. Each time, the people who set their sights on him clamored for an autograph or a picture and jabbered at him while Angel quietly slipped into the background until he managed to brush them off.

But those times were generally innocuous, and she let them slide off. He couldn't help himself, his ego wouldn't let him ignore the attention.

But the fourth time didn't go so well.

A very tall, very tipsy man recognized Murdoc at another bar, and pushed his way over to the two of them standing at the end of the counter.

"Hey! You're that… guy!"

He started off by slinging his arm around Murdoc's neck, which instantly sent him into a flying rage, shoving the man off and nearly sending him stumbling to the floor. He leaned off his bad knee, wrenched from being hung on.

"What the fuck is your problem?!" he snapped.

The man steadied himself and scoffed.

"Damn, touchy. Just tryin' to be friendly."

"I ain't your friend, _asshole_."

"What's your problem?" He glanced over at Angel and gave her a grin. "Hey, what're you drinking?"

"Piss off," Murdoc spat, giving him another harsh shove.

The man lunged out and snatched him up by the collar, nearly pulling him off his feet.

"Get out of my face, man—augh!"

Angel grabbed his hand and bent his finger back till he was crumpling in on himself, letting Murdoc go.

"Look, boys, this is an unfortunate little moment for everyone. And now it's over. So, you're going to apologize, and _you're_ going to accept," she snapped at Murdoc. "And we're all going to walk away with all our fingers just the way they were when we walked in."

She yanked on him a little bit harder.

"Okay?"

"Y-yeah, alright, alright! Sorry, man."

Angel's eyes shot over to Murdoc and his lips curled back in a sneer as he smoothed his shirt out.

"Whatever."

Angel let the man go and he cradled his hand as he turned to slink off, but not before they all heard Murdoc mutter under his breath, "Slag."

Her eyes slipped closed.

"Fuck…"

The man's friend grabbed him and Angel grabbed Murdoc, the both of them desperately trying to pull the two apart as they lunged at each other.

"Stop! Someone's gonna call the cops!" she yelled, her arms looped under Murdoc's as he reached for the man's shirt.

The guy's hand smashed into Angel's face, making a mad grab for Murdoc's neck. She yanked back hard, tripping over the bassist's legs and sending them both tumbling to the floor, Murdoc falling on top of her.

"Augh, Christ! Stop!" she snapped. "Both of you!"

The man shook his friend off and stepped back, panting.

"You're both fucking nuts," he spat, and with a big show of huffing and seething, he let himself be let out by his friend, the rest of the bar all staring at the two left in a heap on the floor.

Angel made nice with the bartender and convinced him not to call the police, making Murdoc stand outside furiously smoking a cigarette as she talked it out.

"Well, we can never come here again," she said as she stepped out. "But we're lucky not to be in the back of a cop car right now."

"You fucking know I didn't do anything wrong," he muttered.

"I know," she agreed with a sigh. "I was hoping to keep the both of us unbruised, but you had to have the last word. Not even Billy got me into fights this often. You're three for three."

"Anything he can do, I can do better."

"I'd like to avoid having another brawl go viral. Everyone will think I'm a jackass."

"You're not?" he snorted.

"Don't test me, I'll finish what he started." She pressed her palm into her back, hissing in pain. "You're fucking heavy for being such a shorty."

"Ooh, don't start," he snapped, jabbing his finger at her. "I'm compact."

He passed her his cigarette so she could take a drag and groaned, rolling his shoulder.

"I'll rub your back if you rub mine."

"Deal."

And so it went, oscillating between utter chaos and some kind of routine that Angel was slowly growing accustomed to, relaxing into, despite everything.

But sometimes Angel would look at him and there was a tension that squeezed the breath from her lungs. She would brush it away, make some excuse, anything to keep his eyes from making her twist under them.

_No more_, she warned herself._ Not again_.

But "_again_" came by the ninth day when they were both rambling about old flames that had done them wrong. He made Angel trot out her five boys that all went south. David, her New York boy who cheated on her. Johnny, her Morehead boy who broke up with her to move out west and “find himself”. Andy, her Ocean City boy who she worked with at a diner and split suddenly after stealing all the money in the register. Her high school boy, Collin, who ghosted her after graduation. And of course, good old Billy.

Murdoc sucked in a long breath.

“Yikes. You’re a bit of a doormat, aren’t you?”

Her face flushed red.

“Alright, Don Juan, why don’t you tell a story, now?”

"Ooh, let’s see… I’ll pick a good one. Oh! There was Marian. What a wild bird she was. This is a great story, love, you'll like this. It was maybe a year after my strip club bloke, and apparently I hadn't learned a thing from all that. I was around nineteen and I went on a bit of a soul-searching bend and I decided that I was going to find my mother. That was big mistake number one," he said, lifting a finger.

Angel leaned in. He hadn't once talked about his mother, and she didn't want to ask. Her own mother had walked out, so pressing the subject wasn't something she wanted to do.

"She just," he snapped his fingers, "disappeared when I was just a little bundle, and no one ever did give me a straight answer, least of all my fucking father. But there were whispers that she'd ended up in an asylum. Which made perfect sense considering the rest of my genealogy. So I went to every one from York to Bristol, asking around. Not much to go on, since I didn't know her name or what she looked like. So I just asked if anyone turned up around '66 looking like me. Needless to say, that was a fruitless effort."

"So, I was on probably my fifth place and while I was plodding out, defeated, a woman approached me, a nurse. She'd heard what I'd said to the lady up front and she told me that she remembered seeing a woman that had a striking resemblance to me. I was elated, and god, Marian was hot. She was forty-three and sleek like a fox. She had these eyes that just," he mimed a gun at her, "shot right through you. So, being the young, impressionable, horny lad I was, I was enraptured."

"I hooked up with her. And God, she was wild. Only ever wanted to do it in my car, which thank God I was a younger man, then, but it still threw my back out something terrible. I'd meet up with her, and I'd ask her if she'd found anything, she'd say she was looking into it, and we'd shag after she got off her shift. Rinse and repeat. But good Lord I liked her. I was hypnotized. All I could think about was her and when I was going to get to hook up with her next. I liked her so much, I thought… she's got to be the One."

Angel's jaw nearly hit the floor.

"_You_ wanted to marry _her_?"

"I know! Horrible, right? It was probably all the speed I was loaded up with at the time. Rattled my cage a little bit, I think."

He lifted his second finger.

"That was mistake number two. So, I was real hopped-up and full of reckless ambition, and I decided I was going to go right up to her door and just sweep her away. Which was the stupidest fucking thing I could've done. Marian's husband answered the door and oooh he did _not_ like me. She came up behind him and he asked who I was and she looked at me with the most serene, poised face, and said that she'd never seen me before in her life." He sucked a breath in through his teeth. "God, he was a big bloke. Knocked he shit out of me right there on the lawn in front of the prize roses, and Marian just stood and watched. I was heartbroken."

"So, after getting my jaw handed to me, I licked my wounds, and the next day went back to the hospital, all bent out of shape, and I went up to the front desk and I asked if she was there. Get this—she wasn't a nurse, she was a patient. Compulsive liar, can you believe? I felt a little less sore about it after I heard that, but wow! What a fucking ride, huh? _That_ was the moment I learned keeping a tight vest was what kept you from losing all your teeth. She made me a much better liar, ha-ha. So, at least I got something out of it."

Angel's mouth hung open.

"You're… not serious?"

"Dead fucking. Dating older people is the worst," he said with a shallow laugh. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Angel gave him a little smile.

"If you're so wise, why does it seem like you can't ever follow your own advice?"

"Ah, it's like a monkey's paw wish. I'm a sage among men, but my wisdom can only benefit others, cursed to never be believed until everything goes to shit. It's truly an insufferable existence."

He shifted, clearing his throat.

"Love is a farce, anyway. You're better to avoid the mess entirely. It's a word people slap on a bundle of selfish emotions to make it seem like it's not just wanting to carry the other person around in your pocket, trapped forever. There are plenty better earthly delights to waste your time with. The pursuit of "love" is a foolish one. Good song material, bad reason for living. You try to hang your hat on that, you'll be disappointed every time."

She leaned her chin in her hand, bent over the coffee table, looking up at him.

"You don't think you'll ever want to be with someone?"

"Look, I've had my opportunities, and I'm still alone. Me and love don't meet at a crossroad. There are plenty more satisfying things—watching your album go platinum, sucking down an oyster too fast and hacking it up to splat right in your producer's face, getting your brains fucked out by an Italian male model, watching thousands of people cheer for you in a sold-out show, or flitting away to another country on a whim. Don't let pedestrian feelings get in the way of enjoying the better things in life, love."

That made her stop and run her fingers over the cool glass of her bottle, thinking about it for a moment. Despite it being dripping with misanthropy, it felt like there was a grain of truth to what he was saying.

"You and I are both out-of-towners," she said. "It gets lonely being like that, just drifting. It's like transferring schools every year, always being the new kid. Being alone isn't always great."

He gave her a long look before breaking away.

"That's a small price to pay for your freedom. I'd rather be alone forever than live under someone else's thumb."

There was an edge to his voice, and she couldn't place if it was irritation or sadness.

"Well… romance isn't the only love there is. There's familial love."

"_That_ is a convenient term for just putting up with the people that spat you out. That's an illusion, too, a nice little bedtime story to keep your world a navigable place."

"You said Noodle was like a daughter to you."

He leaned back, his gaze sliding away.

"That's just self-preservation. I need her. The band needs her. So I look out for her."

"I think I know better than to ask about erotic love."

"Passion and lust aren't love."

Angel scoffed, shaking her head.

"Okay, what about friends?"

"Convenient arrangements, not love."

"Oh, come on, you can't honestly think that?"

"Can and do. I can like people just fine. I like Noodle. I like Lennie, when she's not skinning me alive. But attach "love" to anything and you'll end up setting expectations that will always be let down, _love_."

Angel rolled the bottom of her bottle on the tabletop.

"If I didn't have Fran when everything went down, I don't know what would have happened to me. She didn't have to take me in, but she did. That saved me from a long downhill descent. That's a kind of love, don't you think? Companionship? You went from living with your band for fifteen years, and then… just you. You went from three companions to none. Is that kind of loneliness worth it?"

His nails dug into the arm of the couch.

"That's why I hired you," he muttered. "You were supposed to be something to babble at and maybe torture, if it was fun. Now you're waxing philosophical to me. Didn't exactly get what I bargained for. I'd rather pay for company and know it's fake than sell my soul for a comforting lie."

She couldn't tear her eyes off him.

"You know I'm not faking being your friend, right?"

He scoffed.

"So, you would've been my mate if I hadn't offered you a promotion?"

"I forgave you after I quit when you fessed up to being an insufferable ass, before you gave me another job. I would've been your friend after that if you'd just tried."

"You would've made nice with the asshole from the party?" he snorted.

"Yeah. That asshole turned out to be less terrible than I thought. If I didn't like you at all, believe me, I would have walked away in that alley that night. And I certainly wouldn't be here, now. I'm an out-of-towner, remember? I would've just disappeared and it would've been like I never existed. But here I am, debating the intrinsic value of love and human connection. You're my friend whether you like it or not. Whether I'm yours is up to you, I guess."

He was quiet for a moment before he mumbled, "Maybe I should stop paying you, then."

"Too late, you already did. Can't take it back, now."

He jabbed his finger at her.

"Ooh, you're a cheeky thing, aren't you?" Murdoc picked at the label of his beer. "Fine, I suppose your _temporary_ companionship could be considered friendship, if it means that much to you. You already did literally take a punch for me. I guess being on your good side is worth it."

She leaned over, holding her bottle out.

"Friends whether we like it or not."

He snorted and clinked his beer against hers.

"Well, since I'm your friend, now, I can give you friendly advice."

"Like you weren't before?"

He waggled his finger at her.

"You have horrid taste in men, and you're bad at picking significants. Honestly, you're just terrible at it. The worst. Awful."

"Is there a point, here?"

"My point is, you're much better off shagging a loaner before you buy someplace else. You don't get a kid a new car right off the bat. I might have a lot of miles on me, but I run just fine," he laughed. "Think of me as your learner's permit. You can get your kicks with me till you learn to pick better."

"Wow, you're so generous."

"What can I say? I'm a philanthropist at heart. My door's always open if you're looking for some recreational stress relief. That's what friends do, right?"

Angel shook her head and drummed her nails along the glass, grinning quietly to herself.

“I can’t help but feel like you’ve got a lot of time to make up for,” he said, leaning back. “Boys, the lot of them. I can’t imagine they were good rides.”

She coughed out a laugh.

“No, not particularly. Except David, he had some practice.”

“Ooh, that so? Better than me? You did say I was the biggest.”

She tried not to look him directly in the face. She regretted telling him that.

“He was… equitable. The soft, kissy type. That’s how he lured them in, I guess. Lured me in.”

“You don’t strike me as the soft, kissy type, love. You seem more the… horribly, terribly repressed type. You were absolutely vibrating, last time. Burning hot. No one’s that eager that gets their fill on the regular. You should let yourself loose more.”

Her body was flushed under her clothes, remembering his chest against her back so clearly she could feel it.

“Sorry that I’m not a big slut like you,” she jabbed, letting out a nervous little laugh.

He cackled, leaning over.

“Oh! I’m a slut, huh? You’re not wrong. That’s a compliment. But I’d say letting me shag you face-down on the bed while you scream my name is a bit slutty, as well.”

Angel tried her best to stay even and calm, trying not to let her embarrassment get the better of her in front of him.

“I’m not repressed.”

“Oh, sure, you’re the picture of healthy sexual expression. That good-girl act doesn't fool me."

A shaky little chuckle left her.

"Oh, okay, you want to talk about acts? How about your aloof-cold-loner act? That doesn't fool me either. You always try to seem so unaffected, but you're not. You're just putting up a wall. That seems kinda repressed."

His jaw tensed.

"You say I can just ask you for sex like it's nothing, but you can't fess up that you get lonely, too? Like you don't want a friend? You can't honestly expect me to believe you're perfectly fine being totally alone."

"I _am_."

"No you're not. You didn't need me to make an album. You're plenty capable of writing and playing yourself. You wanted the companionship, admit it!"

He was gripping his beer so tight in his hand that she thought it might break.

"I can't do vocals by myself."

"Okay, then you could've written everything and had me demo it at the end. You're used to working in a group. You wanted the company."

She rested her chin on the tabletop, watching his face contort into a sneer.

"It's okay to need other people, you know?"

"I don't _need_ anybody," he scoffed. "All I need is me."

"Everyone needs someone."

"Well I don't!"

He glanced away, every muscle tense, trying his damnedest not to fly into a rage.

"I needed you."

Murdoc blanked, his scowl falling as he turned back to look at her casual face.

"What?"

"Well, I needed somebody _like_ you. Someone to kick me in the ass. Someone to shake me out of my spiral. I needed that. You're a goddamn handful, but… I'm happy I met you. I can admit that." She flicked her bottle, grumbling. "And fine, I guess I am… a little repressed. I'm just… still fucked up from everything, you know? I didn't have sex with anybody after Billy, until you. It's… not easy for me."

Murdoc stared at her for a long moment before he gathered himself.

"I… suppose sometimes I… get bored of talking to myself."

A tiny grin curled her lips. That was probably as good an admission as she was going to get.

"You and I are a lot more alike than either of us would like to admit—no parents, no home, no family. You and me are alone in a different way than most people. It's nice to know you're not _completely_ alone, sometimes."

He was twisting around inside, his arms folded tight across his chest.

"Riiiight, I'm a fifty-year-old world-famous rockstar and you're a shiny ingénue. We're the same."

"I didn't say we _were_ the same, smartass. I know you're not the touchy-feely type but… I'm here."

He held her stare, silent, squirming in his seat.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "Like you're the first person to give me that little armchair therapist platitude. What an unbearable softie you are. Naive and gullible. You're the whole package."

Angel clicked her tongue and got to her feet to grab another beer.

His hand reached out and snatched her wrist, pulling her back.

The pleading look on his face made her set the bottle down, step over the table, and climb into his lap, his hands coming to rest on the small of her back, fingers digging in. He gripped onto her like he would die if he didn't. His eyes were focused on her, asking for her to pay attention to him, to look at him, to make him feel seen. To make him not lonely.

Angel cupped his jaw in her hands and kissed him softly, her lips dragging over his as she leaned back. His fingers tangled in her hair as he pulled her close, insistent and needy, his breaths hard and strained against her mouth.

Murdoc couldn't get his jeans undone fast enough. He reached under her skirt and slipped his fingers against her.

"Oh, were you thinking about something? Feels like you wanted this just as much as me, I don't even have to do anything," he huffed, his voice earnest and throaty, lacking its cocky edge.

"Don't tease me, Muds."

"Can't help myself."

He laid her down and pulled her panties to one side and pushed right into her, no foreplay, no waiting, his voice a labored grunt in her ear.

"You gonna call me a slut again?"

She said nothing, and he pulled away to look at her flushed, desperate face, her fingers digging into his shoulders. His fist closed in her hair, tugging just enough.

"Oh Christ, you _are_ repressed. If you wanted to that badly, all you had to do was ask. Don't torture yourself like that. That's my job."

He gripped onto the small of her back and looked her right in the face as she panted, her mind absolutely gone. All she could think about was him—his bare chest, his long fingers, his lips, his glazed-over eyes. Her fingers held onto the curve of his jaw and she breathed against his mouth, his hands clutching her, her lips parted. He could feel her desperation and didn't string her along.

"Let me hear you, love. Show me that gorgeous face," he encouraged, babbling on and on with sweet words until she seized up and he pushed into her as hard as he could, cumming right behind her.

A moment of weakness, she reasoned afterwards, her head resting on his shoulder as he buried his face in her neck, gripping her hips.

_Not again_.

When he came up to the room at the end of the second week, he heard her before he saw her.

She was laid out languid on the bed, her head hanging over the side with his bass slung across her hips. He watched her fingers move over the slick surface. He knew he should have been livid about her touching his shit, especially his bass. He'd kicked the shit out of people for less. But as he watched the instrument rest against the bare skin peeking up from under her shirt, he just wished that was him laying on her instead.

She was plucking out plunky, clumsy notes, her eyes closed, her hair draping over the edge of the bed like a waterfall.

She was singing a rambling little song, something she was playing with.

"_Slow down, dilettante. So I can limp beside you. I’m following your houndstooth. Hang on, street savant. My bank in my back pocket. How far you think it'd take us? You're like a party I heard through a wall. Invite me. I'm always watching you through a keyhole. But let's not forget… why we crawled here_."

"Your fingers are all wrong."

Her eyes flashed open and she was facing his crotch. She glanced up at his sly-looking smirk.

"You know I don't play," she muttered.

"It's not you're fucking Tele, you don't use more than one or two."

He motioned for her to sit up and he reached around her, pressed against her back and awkwardly bent over, his two fingers plucking the strings, his hand moving over the neck. It was a different creature for him, rumbling low, leaps and bounds from the thudding, unsteady notes she coaxed out. She was fine with her Telecaster, but this was different.

She leaned against him.

"_Oh, Elijah. Don't make me wait. Nobody's winning. The sharks are swimming in the red. Oh, Elijah. Don't make me wait. While you were sleeping, my mind goes creaking down the hall..._"

They shared a cigarette and looked out at the river from the bed.

Angel couldn't remember when she'd felt so at peace before, just existing. Going sideways, she thought. Murdoc was a smart man when he wasn't making an absolute ass of himself.

And he was quickly becoming a familiarity that she knew would be hard to give up when the time came.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged warnings: drug use, mentions of physical/emotional/sexual abuse, sexual content.

Angel didn’t have many friends left in New York. Most had moved on elsewhere, or they’d fallen out of touch for so long that it felt strange to try and pick things up again. The only one who was still around and spoke to her was June.

She'd lived with June for a few months, and in those few months, it felt as if she'd met every single person in the city. She liked to call herself an "organizer", but really, she was an extremely lucky event planner. Art gallery openings, concerts, galas, exclusive parties—June had her foot in every door. She was made for the city. Angel liked the anonymity of the crowd. June wanted to know every face.

Angel reached out to her to meet for coffee, just to chat for a little bit to see what she'd been up to since she’d been gone. But with June, things tended to get out of hand.

Coffee quickly snowballed onto an all-night bar marathon, which she invited a bunch of her important friends to. Angel regretted saying anything in the first place. Going alone, she'd be completely at her mercy, and the mercy of her insufferably successful peers.

The few times she'd attended June's "gatherings", as she liked to call them, it always ended up the same—with Angel hovering on the edge, waiting until she'd hung around a respectful amount of time before bailing. But there wasn't any casual backing out of this.

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, smoothing her shirt out and pulling at her jeans. She looked… fine. _ Just _ fine. Not more or less. Angel had two pairs of pants, two skirts, three shirts, a sweater, a bra, and a jacket. She either slept in one of Murdoc's old shirts he'd left at the flat, or in her bra, and she'd traded in her winter coat a few months ago to a buy-sell to get those ridiculous heels that eviscerated her feet. She traveled light, always expecting to have to leave at the drop of a hat. There wasn't much mixing and matching to be had.

She'd been out of pocket and on the road for so long that she never really gathered moss, and what remained of her personal items could fit into her suitcase, minus the guitar. It was practical. But every so often there were times where she looked at herself and thought it was just… fine.

She let out a long breath.

Failed career.

Failed relationship.

Her well of personal conversation to draw from would be incredibly shallow, unless someone was very interested in talking about old motorcycles or working as a waitress.

The last time June had seen her, Angel was skating by DJing little cramped shows at seedy clubs and serving as a cocktail waitress in a skin-tight black outfit she was sure Murdoc would have loved, just barely scraping enough together for her portion of the rent at the end of the month. And she hadn't really moved up in three years.

She stared at herself for a long time before sucking in a deep breath. She'd just have to suffer it alone.

The gears in her brain started turning, and she glanced into the other room at Murdoc. She was getting a bad idea.

He was watching the Exorcist, completely enraptured with his boots kicked up on the table. She poked her head in.

"Hey, I'm about to head out."

"Have fun," he said absently, waving at her without looking away from the screen. "Be home by eleven, don't talk to strangers, and no shagging boys in the carpark."

She struggled with the words that rolled around in her brain as she hovered in the doorway.

"Actually, I was… hoping maybe you'd come with me."

He paused the movie and Angel stood up straight. The self-satisfied little smile he shot her didn't ease her nerves.

"Trying to take me home to the folks, eh? Can't say I blame you, I make a _ fantastic _ first impression." He leaned his chin in his hand. "Why should I? Convince me."

"Nevermind," she said, turning around.

"Aw, come on, you're no fun at all." He got to his feet, cracking his back with a long groan. "So, trying to come home the big game hunter with a trophy on your arm?" he laughed.

"I don't really know anyone except June. The rest of the group all moved on. It's just me." She gave him a weak little smile. "It'd be nice to have at least one friend there."

That sent a strange jolt through him, a mix of surprise and apprehension and ego-stroking pride.

"Ooh, that’s right, you think I’m your friend."

"Not if you keep acting like that."

He jammed his feet into his boots, following along behind her.

“I get to make fun of them though, right?”

“We’ll see.”

“You look nervous,” he said, jamming his finger into her neck as they walked, making her scrunch in on herself.

“I’m not nervous. I just haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“You should be used to that by now, part-timer.”

“You’d think so,” she muttered. “It doesn’t get any easier.”

“Then you haven’t had enough practice disappearing out of people’s lives!”

“June’s crowd isn’t exactly my crowd. I’m just not thrilled to jump back into that.”

“Then let’s ditch them,” he said with a confused shrug.

“I already promised. I don’t have many friends left after all this time.”

He scoffed.

“You’re too sentimental. That’s gonna get you in real shit, someday.”

“As if it hasn’t already,” she sighed.

She wasn't surprised at all when the address June sent her turned out to be a ritzy little cocktail bar that she was vastly underdressed for. She took a little solace in the fact that Murdoc was just in a white tee shirt and jeans, but somehow it looked more casually fashionable on him. She could already feel a hole burning in her pocket as they walked in.

It was packed inside. They had to swim over to the hostess and she directed them to June's table, crammed end-to-end with youthful socialites. Angel debated slipping out before they were seen.

"Angela!" June called, rushing over.

"Angela," Murdoc laughed under his breath.

June was a tall, lithe girl, with fashionable brunette hair cropped to her shoulders and bangs that swept across her brow, sleek and slim in a little dress Angel was sure she bought just for this.

She patted her back as she gave her a light little hug.

"Hey, it's good to see you!"

The girl pulled away, touching the end of Angel's hair.

"Blue, that's a change."

"Ha, yeah… I got a little tired of pink. Um… June, this is—"

"Jacob," he interrupted, thrusting his hand out to her. "Jacob Faust."

Angel stared at him, a tiny little smirk growing on her face.

He was all ego all the time. If he was giving a fake name, he had to have something rattling around in that rusty steel trap of his. Probably something that would end with her cleaning up a mess, but it would be fun to watch. Her nervousness was starting to ebb with his million dollar grin.

She recognized a few of the others at the table as June's friends, but they might as well have all been strangers. They were all clamoring over each other to get their piece in. They spent their breath flouting their careers, or where they’d travelled, one-upping with wide smiles.

One early twenty-something girl with soft lavender hair was particularly vicious; the insult with a smile type. And there weren't many topics she didn't punctuate with some snide comment. She sat at the very end, her long acrylics tapping against her phone screen, intentionally oblivious until she saw the opportunity to add her insight. Her skin sparkled with a thin sheen of iridescent glitter that was dusted all over her. _ Yikes _, Angel thought to herself, tracing her fingers through the condensation dewing up on her glass.

Angel was phasing out, glazing over as she tried hard to pay attention to the lot of them buzzing about their trips abroad.

Murdoc leaned in, whispering into her ear.

“You’ve got some boring friends, love.”

“I don’t really know them, just June. And even she’s… well… I used to be more easily entertained, I guess. You set a high bar.”

He got so close she could practically feel his grin.

"Oh, please, keep stroking my ego, love. You know it really gets me h—"

“What about you, Jacob?” one of the girls asked suddenly.

He perked up, blinking.

“Me? I play bass.”

“Oh, that’s… interesting. What, uh… what do you play?”

He stared at them, cracking a smile that made Angel cover her face with her hand in preparation for whatever was about to come out of his mouth.

“Experimental freeform sludge metal.”

She had to choke back a laugh that leaked out a wheeze.

"That's, um… different."

“It's an exploration of the soul. We never play the same thing twice. Our songs usually last about fifteen minutes. Just bass, marimba, and tamborine.”

That got blank stares all around. She kicked him lightly under the table, which made him grin at her from over the edge of his Dark and Stormy and laugh a particularly strange giggle.

“I mostly play bars, weddings, wiccan coven meetings, and public libraries back home. Aaaand I teach music theory at uni,” he said, flashing Angel a big smile and wrapping his arm around her. “That’s where we met, isn’t that right?”

She snorted, shaking her head. He certainly was enjoying this alter-ego of his to the fullest possible extent.

“At a university?”

“Yes! I teach Music Theory for Sexual Therapeutics. Angel was my star student.”

She tensed her jaw with a thin smile on her face, staring at him from the corner of her eye, transmitting “_I’m going to kill you_” into his brain. He received the message, but was blissfully ignoring it.

“He was your… professor?”

“Yes!” he said quickly. “They do say love blossoms in strange places. Sure, there's a twenty year difference, but age is just a number, don’t you think?”

She knew he was making fun of her, too, and she should have been mortified at the shit he was saying, but he was on such a roll that she didn’t want to stop him. Instead, she took a long drink, watching his thread unravel.

June looked like she was going to pass out.

_ Well, that's what you get for putting me in with these people _, she thought.

“So um… you two are… together?”

“Engaged!” he piped up excitedly. “But it’s surprisingly hard to find a Satanic priest that’s willing to perform a traditional blood wedding, could you imagine? They’re perfectly legal! We’re all consenting adults. And sacrificial offerings are covered under religious protection laws. For the chickens, it's fast and painless. Just snap their necks real quick-like. It’s a beautiful, misunderstood expression of love. But I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” he assured, patting her hand.

Angel was vibrating, desperately trying to keep her laughter in, nearly busting at the seams. They were all staring, all trying to figure out if he was bullshitting them or not. But from the outside, it was hard to tell. He was good at investing in his own bullshit.

"Um… that's… congratulations?"

"Thank you," Angel said thinly.

June shook her head, confusion boiling over.

“Uhh, but… what about that guy you hooked up with? The one with the band?”

“More my band than his,” she muttered, taking another deep drink. "But, um… it just didn't work out."

Angel stroked the edges of her glass, trying to look unbothered.

“Oh, that must have been… hard,” June said, unsure of what to do with that.

“It’s alright, really. Billy had this weird sexual aura," Murdoc said, gesticulating his hands around like a magician about to perform a street trick. "Ange' has a violet aura, I've got red. And those match, you know? Billy's was more… shit brown. And he was an Aries, I think. Never would have worked. Also he turned out to be a necrophiliac with a piss kink. So really, it was all for the best."

They were both snorting and cackling and everyone else was… less than impressed. Their laughter died out, leaving them both tense and awkwardly giggling. Angel cleared her throat.

"Uh, he's joking about that last part."

"I'm not," he chuckled, shaking his head. "He really was a sick fuck."

The girl with the lavender hair pulled out her phone, her fingers tapping fast against the screen.

"What'd you say you played, again?"

Murdoc glanced over at her.

"Bass, baby. The backbone of every song. Deep and dark and sexy. Just like me," he added with a strange laugh.

"I thought you looked familiar. This you?" she said, turning the phone around to show them all a picture of Murdoc and the rest of his band, all on stage at the Grammys. "Next to Madonna?"

Everyone leaned over the table, glancing between him and the photo, realization dawning on them.

Angel flushed hard and the grin melted off Murdoc's face.

“That really is you,” June said, reeling in shock. “So you were just bullshitting.”

“Ah, I like to keep a low profile when I’m out,” he said, trying to recover from being outed. “All the hero-worship gets old after the first five beers.”

"And you're like… what, his sugar baby?" the lavender girl asked Angel, lips curled into a thin smile.

Angel went ramrod straight, her face flushing hard.

“No!” she said louder than she meant to.

Murdoc looked at her from the corner of his eye, his jaw tight.

Of course she thought that—Angel was twenty years younger and a hundred years behind. He was successful, and she wasn't. He had money, and she didn't. Hell, he was even _ paying _ her. And she'd let him fuck her, on top of all of it. By all accounts, she _ was _ his sugar baby to outside eyes. But nothing horrified her more than Murdoc thinking that, or thinking she thought that. It cut too close to the bone and made her vibrate with anger. The joke wasn't funny anymore.

“It’s not like that,” she said, lowering her voice.

"A mid-life crisis thing, then? Older men always like to trade in for a younger model," she said with a viciously sweet little laugh.

Angel's eyes darted over to June, who said nothing, glancing away.

"It's not like that," she said again, firmer, her teeth clenched.

"No, no. She's right. I could've bought another car to fill the void of my impending death, but her motor runs mmmmuch faster," he purred, leaning his chin in his hand, sliding his eyes over to the girl. "And I could think of worse ways to spend your youth than getting your lights shagged out by a desperate old man. And she seemed to like my tongue shoved down her throat just fine enough."

Embarrassment flooded her in a hot rush.

"_ Murdoc! _"

He went stiff, his eyes shooting over to her, then melted into a thin smile and shrugged, easing off.

"Eh, we're not together, anyway. We're colleagues. Just a little joke."

Angel’s shoulders unclenched and all the air left her lungs. _ Just a joke. _

Within seconds, they were all over him, and she'd been elbowed out. Now that his cover was blown, they suddenly cared, suddenly wanted to talk to him and joke with him. She was decidedly less successful, and by definition, less interesting. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but she felt a little snake of jealousy coil up in her chest as she watched them fawn over the man they’d five minutes ago had no interest in. That was just how it was around him, she supposed. He was used to moving in much different circles than her. This was his whole life. When they were alone together, when he went unnoticed in public, that was pretend; he was slumming it. Like royalty disguising themselves as a peasant. _ This _was reality for him, and it was alien for her. It made her feel… small, despite her best efforts to not let it bother her.

She let him go, leaning her head on her hand and listening to him eagerly recounting tales of his fame, just listening to his voice and his laughs. It did take the pressure off her, kept her from having to sell herself. He was a product all his own that he was more than willing to pitch to everyone around him.

"Ooooh, look at that!"

Angel blinked as he shoved June's phone in her face.

"Oh, Christ…"

It was an old photo of Angel in her slinky cocktail outfit, her pink hair tied up, leaning over June's shoulder, smiling a thin smile and balancing a precarious tray of drinks. She remembered that night, a long shift that June decided to drop in on while she ran herself ragged popping from one table to the next. They’d been short a bartender, so she shook the drinks and ran them around the room. That was a perfect picture of the two of them—June enjoying a relaxing cocktail on her comfortable budget and Angel running like hell just to skate by.

Angel peeked through her fingers, looking at her twenty-five year old self.

"Why'd you have to show him that…"

"You have to send me a copy," he laughed. "I have to say, I do prefer the blue. Pink's too loud for you."

That twisted something in her.

"What does that mean?"

"You know," he drawled, "you can be quite _ timid _ sometimes. Blue's more your speed. A tranquil color," he added, flittering his fingers.

Her hand tensed. She wasn't sure why, but that rubbed her the wrong way. He was teasing _ her _now.

"You don't still have that flippy little skirt, do you? I quite like that. Very Playboy bunny," he purred, and the rest of them were laughing because he was laughing.

Angel's face flushed and her hands tensed.

"No, I don't."

"That's a shame. Guess the picture will have to do," he said, glancing down at his phone as June's text came through. "Really good stuff."

She turned away, gripping her drink. This was going to be a long night.

She glanced down at her phone—a new message. Murdoc sent her a copy, too? She unlocked her screen and stared down at the photo that popped up. For a split second, she turned to ask him why he sent her a picture of himself, until she saw who it was from. Her blood froze.

Angel got to her feet in a hurry, slipping away from the table to rush over to the bathrooms, hovering in the hallway as she stared down at the message. It was a direct message from Instagram—a forwarded photo, one of Murdoc and a fan, and in the corner on the very edge, was her. It was from Billy, one of his burner accounts.

Breaths came in quick and fast, panic flooding her brain. He was looking for her.

She slid back to Murdoc, fishing the pack of cigarettes and lighter out of his back pocket with little resistance and slipped outside to shakily light one up.

The person in the picture was unmistakably her. Murdoc was tagged in it, easy to find with a brief search. Billy had been watching. All he had to do was search Murdoc's name and scroll till he found her. She was standing right next to a huge bull's eye.

She tried to think logically. What was he going to do? Buy a plane ticket and hunt her down? Not likely. It made her hand shake all the same, the nicotine barely taking the edge off as it rushed to her head. He was fucking crazy, it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.

He kept worming his way back in, finding new ways to frighten her. Her hand clutched hard around the phone, pulsing hot waves of fear and anger sweeping through her.

"_ Leave me alone, _" she typed out fast.

She stared down at the picture, her body shaking with building, uncontrollable rage as her fingers trembled.

"_ I'm not your girl, I never will be you sick fucking bastard. Get the fuck out of my life. _"

Angel stared down at the message, trembling, and as soon as the message said "read", she locked her phone and stuffed it back into her pocket, pressing against the wall of the building, her chest bursting.

That was the first time she'd said anything to him since it happened.

It sent a tremble of terror and intense satisfaction through her, that slowly gave way to just terror. She felt her phone vibrate once, twice, three times. She’d opened up Pandora’s box just because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She rubbed her face hard. That was why she couldn’t let her guard down, for exactly that reason—when she did, she inevitably did something horrifically stupid. And this was a prime example.

Angel slunk back to the table, her eyes turned downward as she handed the carton back to him.

"Aw, what's with the long face, love? What's bothering you?"

"Nothing," she snapped, harsher than she meant to, then added, softer, "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

He gave her a long look from the corner of his eye before turning away, June waving for his attention. Angel gripped her melting drink and the sound of conversation became a distant echo in her ears. Murdoc was right, he wasn’t ever going to stop. Not ever.

She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it. She drank and kept on the edges, listening to Murdoc babbling on and the rest of them clamor to get their next word in. Really, she just wanted to go home.

Angel knocked down three drinks before June corralled the group from the bar to a club a few streets down, ping-ponging Murdoc between them. The lavender girl decided he was her new favorite. The young girl looped her arm around his, leaning in to say something, tittering behind her hand. And to her absolute horror, Murdoc was laughing. Angel slid toward the back of the group, her head tilted down, the liquor making her emotions twist up into an overwhelming knot in her chest.

This was a huge mistake. She should have known better than to get close enough for his indifference to hurt. He _ did _ say he didn’t have friends, just convenient acquaintances.

She took in a long breath and looked up at him, pushing it all down. It wasn’t a big deal, not in the grand scheme of things. She didn’t own him. He had his own life to lead, and she had hers. They were just two out-of-towners, briefly in the same space. Eventually she’d be back on her own, and he’d be back on his. Who was she to try and control what he did? For him, she was just a blip in his extravagant life. Unfortunately, he was a massive, unignorable beacon in her boring little one.

Murdoc glanced back over his shoulder, watching Angel pull her phone out and stare down at it, fixated. She'd completely lost interest, and it sent a twinge of irritation through him. She got so fucking defensive at being called a "sugar baby". What was it? The rest of them knowing he had his hand in her pants? His age? What part of it was so disgusting to her? He barely registered the girl tugging on his shoulder until she was nearly shaking him and he turned back to her.

“Hey, did you hear me?”

“Not at all,” he snorted.

Clubbing was not Angel’s scene. But everyone else, including Murdoc, seemed to like it just fine, so she didn’t resist.

Murdoc instantly disappeared into thin air seconds after walking into the place, invisible in the pulsing neon lights and the crowd. So she parked herself at the bar, stirring her obscenely expensive drink as one of June’s male friends latched onto her and started jabbering a million miles an hour to her about… something. She couldn’t really hear him, and it didn’t seem to matter. She just nodded when he looked at her, and that seemed to be enough. All she could think about was her inability to find Murdoc in the moving swarm of people, and the phone she could feel buzzing in her back pocket. She baited the hook, and now he was biting. Bitter regret filled her. This was a night of extremely poor decisions.

Billy was never a man to take a hint, or stop because he was told to. She could see his beady black eyes and his boyish little smile, towering over her and using that sickly sweet voice of his to twist her heart in his hand till it popped. She felt the scar along her palm as she ignored the man beside her. She could feel his huge hand around her jaw and his long hair brushing her back as he’d lean over her.

“_ I’m just being honest with you. Stop crying. _ ” She grunted, squirming at the voice she could all-too-well remember hissing in her ear. “ _ You know I love you. You’re the only one I can really be me with. You don’t mind the rough edges. That’s what I like about you, you give everything. _”

That voice that she’d loved. That voice that she found so enticing and inviting, that convinced her to wrap herself around his little finger and keep her mouth shut as he stuck a knife in her chest and called it love. Billy was a demon with a silver tongue and an iron fist. And she’d loved him. She let him in and laid out like a doormat to walk all over. She let him hurt her, let him screw her. It made her mind-numbingly sick.

“_ Do you think he’s ever going to stop? _”

“... _ No _.”

Angel knocked back the rest of her drink and got to her feet in a rush, her heart hammering in her chest.

_ Fucking bastard. _

“Excuse me,” she said suddenly, abandoning both her glass and unwanted companion at the bar, shoving her way back to the bathroom.

In her buzzed brain, the anger building inside her was driving her to make one more bad choice. Enough was enough. She wanted this over, here and now.

The phone rang in her ear, huddled into herself in the women’s room. Every nerve in her body was screaming with rage. The sudden silence of her call being picked up made her heart explode as his horrid voice dripped out of the speaker.

“_ Angel. _”

Everything she’d prepared herself to say turned to ash in her trembling mouth. That voice alone was enough to buckle her knees and tears to well up in her eyes.

_ Say something. Anything. It’s too late to go back now, just say it. Say it! _

“Stop contacting me,” she managed in a hoarse voice. “Just… stop.”

“_ ... I know you’re angry. I know, _ ” he said in his sly little voice. “ _ I’m sorry, the way things ended. I was wrong. I just… I never stopped thinking about you. _”

“Stop,” she pleaded in a thin voice, her heart hammering in her ears. “Stop. Shut up. Just leave me alone.”

She could hear him tensing up.

“_ Is it because of him? _”

“Don’t. I’m not calling you to talk. I’m calling you to make you understand. Call me again, text me again, do anything… and I’ll make sure you regret it. Leave me alone.”

“_ ... Did he say something about me? You don’t know him at all. You can’t trust him, he’s a fucking liar and cheat. He’ll hang you up as quick as he can once he’s taken what he wants. _”

A stone sank in her stomach, her lungs collapsing. His voice grew low and close.

“_ Did you fuck him? _”

“Don’t contact me anymore,” she snapped, and hung up, shakily re-blocking his number and shoving the phone back into her pocket.

She slid down to the floor, hugging her knees.

What the fuck was she thinking?

Everything felt too close as she stepped back out of the bathroom.

Her eyes darted from one shifting face to the next, her breaths coming in quick. Pulses of heat washed through her and she began to feel like she might faint. She backed up into a group of girls that shrieked and shoved her into a man's back. She struggled to right herself, clutching her chest.

It was too much. She had to get out.

Angel swam through to the bar, gripping the edge as she desperately tried to control the air being sucked into her.

The hand that came down on her made her shriek.

Murdoc laughed, wiping his nose with his thumb as she whipped around to look at him.

He was coated in a sheen of sweat, eyes wide, and his grin looked… off. He leaned in close, yelling over the music.

"Ange', Ange', I've been looking alllll over for you! Christ, you're eight feet tall and you've got blue hair, you think you'd stand out. Much like a certain idiot I know. Though, it was always easier finding 'D, he was always tripping over himself, you see. I'm gonna put a bell around your neck, haha. Can you believe?! Not one Gorillaz song all night! Not even a remix. It's a crime. I'm gonna have a word with the DJ."

Angel blinked, trying to keep up.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He made an odd sound in his throat and gave her a big wink.

"Just a little bit of blow, love. Why, did you want some? Sorry, sorry, should've given you the heads-up. I got a little ehhhhhhh jumpy! Can't imagine you on coke, could you imagine?!"

She took a step backward into the crowd, her heart hammering in her chest. She was sweating.

"I have… I have to go outside. I'm getting claustrophobic, I think," she managed, her breaths coming in quick bursts.

It was so loud, and hot. Everything felt tight around her neck and grew tighter by the second. She was drowning.

He grabbed her hard by the wrist, tugging her towards him.

"Oh, come on, come on, not yet! Look, look, stay close to me, love, I'll keep you safe," he purred into her ear, gripping onto her tight. "You can grrrrrind up next to me. You were gone so long, I forgot how hot you were. Keep off the others, you might make me jealous, heh-heh."

His hands ran under her shirt, around her waist, pressing his hips into her. Her head was swimming, panic sending pulses of heat through her skin. He was pulling her down under the tide, drowning her. The heat of him made her sick and she thought she would puke.

"No, I need to go outside. Please let go."

He either couldn't hear her, or pretended he couldn't. He was talking into her neck, his thumbs massaging her hips in little circles.

“Listen, listen, listen… After—after all this, after I turn the album in and I get this goddamn shackle off my leg, I want… I want to take you someplace. Someplace hot, eh-heh-heh. Ibiza, or—or Havana. Someplace I can see that gorgeous golden skin of yours in the sun, all dripping.”

She certainly _ was _ hot, overheating, panicking. His sharp teeth sunk hard into her neck, forcing a yelp out of her as she struggled to pull away, his wet tongue running over her reddening skin. This was all too much.

"I'm sure I could get you a little bump, take the edge off, right? Makes you feel ten years younger. Yeah, yeah, we'll get you something. We'll get you set right, and then…" He leaned up to her ear, his lips moving against her skin. "Oooh, I'll give you a shag in the stalls that you'll nnnnever forget. You won't know up from down when I'm done with you, pet."

Angel squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sounds and the lights and the heat and the feeling of a thousand people breathing down the back of her neck.

Murdoc was pulling on her, dragging her through the crowd. It gave her motion sickness.

"No, Muds, I have to leave," she pleaded, her voice going reedy and thin.

"Again, with the nickname. I'm starting to think you've got a thing for getting under my skin."

His voice disappeared into the cacophony of sound, just a muffled whisper in her ears.

A tall man stood outside the bathroom door, and her spine went rigid and time froze. His face, all cut in shadow against the pink light, his long hair pulled back… he looked like Billy.

Murdoc's mumbling voice pierced back into her.

"—gonna have some real fun, love."

Some switch inside her flipped and she snapped.

"Let go!"

Her hand moved by itself, striking him across the face, forcing him to stagger back. She panted, her hand shaking, ears ringing. He lifted his fingers to his cheek, stunned.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, inaudible in the pulsing bass that deafened her.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. The man who looked like Billy was looking at her.

She turned, wading through the sea of sweating bodies as fast as she could, leaving Murdoc nursing his reddening face, still reeling in shock.

Bursting out into the night air was like fighting to the surface of a boiling ocean. The breeze was cool and she sucked it in fast, leaning on her knees. Everything sounded distant. Police sirens, cars, people passing—all of it was a jumbled hum in her ringing ears.

_ You're okay _ , she told herself, _ you're fine. _ She felt anything but.

Billy wasn't there. It was a trick of the light, shadows playing on faces that made him appear in her brain. But that didn't lessen the fear.

Someday, it would be him. She was sure of it.

Angel walked around to the corner, leaning on the cool brick wall, the thrumming music an echo in the night.

She couldn't go back in. She couldn't make herself. She could just wait, she thought. Stay outside till they were done. But how long? An hour? Two? Three? She clapped her hand over her heart that only just started to slow.

Guilt weighed on her. She shouldn't have hit him, but she panicked. Even his touch was too much to bear. The wild, strange look on his face rattled her, made him unfamiliar. She'd never seen him like that. And of course, the one time she really needed him, he was too fucked to notice or care.

She paced the sidewalk, running her fingers through her hair.

The image of that girl hanging off him sent waves of nausea through her.

This had to stop.

It was getting too real, too painful, too easy to slip into. She felt so sick that she had to clap her hand over her mouth, sucking in long breaths.

This had to stop.

She pulled her phone out, holding it tight in her shaking hands.

_ "Hey, felt a little sick, gonna turn in early. Have a good night!" _

She sent that to June, a long sigh rattling out of her strained lungs. It wasn't a total lie. But her fingers hovered over her message to him.

_ "I'm sorry I hit you. I panicked." _

Delete.

_ "I had to get out of there, I—" _

Delete.

_ "Where the fuck did you get coke, anyway?" _

Delete.

Nothing felt right. She twisted.

_ "I'll see you at home, wake me up when you get back." _

Her thumbs paused, then sent before she could change her mind. _ See you at home _. “Home” was relative, but that's what it was beginning to feel like.

It felt wrong to leave him behind, but if she stayed, he'd be dragging her around like an anchor, and she already felt like she was running along behind him to catch up. Running behind a train that would never stop for her.

_ Go sideways _.

She took one last look at the club doors, then Angel tucked her phone back in her pocket, and made her way to the metro.

  
  


Murdoc knew what he was.

A little viper in a pit that bit when anything came too close. Something no one in their right mind trusted. Something that told you to come near with a smile then sunk teeth in.

But he wanted them to try. It was like a game. How close did they think they could get? How hard would they try? How quickly would they give up? It was easy to turn on a smile and bait people in, lull them into a false sense of security. But when he let the real Murdoc out, they always turned tail.

And Angel was no exception, he realized.

A little too high and a little too handsy and she'd had enough.

He knew he'd bump up against her limit, eventually. But he didn't think the coke would be what did it. Maybe it was him climbing all over her in front of her friends. Maybe it was her being outed for shacking up with him and she was embarrassed. Maybe it was just too much of him in general.

Whatever it was, she'd had it.

He blinked slow, rubbing his face. Everything was irritating. 

Especially June's lavender friend, who was currently straddling him on a velvet couch in the back. Once he was Murdoc and not Jacob, suddenly she was all smiles and falling over herself to make him look at her. And he was. He watched her squirm in his lap, his lip curling back over his teeth. She made him sick.

But she was better than nothing, and as he started to come down, he was bottoming out fast and needed a hit of something. Or hit something.

She moved against him, nuzzling against his ear, his neck. He could feel the heat of her, but distant. He took her by the chin, nudging her to his mouth, looking up at her lust-stricken, smiling face, looking for… something. His half-lidded eyes ran over her.

He pulled her in, jamming his tongue into her mouth and she sighed into him, sliding her hands around his neck, gripping the collar of his shirt. She tasted like gin, and she covered him in glitter.

He didn't know what he was looking for. Something, maybe, that he'd been missing. Something to fill up the hole quickly opening back up inside him that he plugged up with whatever he could get his hands on. But her mouth wasn't any better of a place to be than anywhere else. He felt nothing but baseline carnal desire to just be touched.

With a fair amount of pushing and shoving, they fought their way to the bathroom, Murdoc's skull pounding with the beat that shook the walls.

His head slammed against the stall as she pushed him backward, kneeling down on the dirty tile to unbuckle his belt and make quick work of the fly of his jeans. His eyes were unseeing. Everything had a ghost trail as his head rolled back, the fluorescent lights blinding, his shoulders tense and his throat dry as he swallowed.

She grabbed his cock hard in her hand and a pulse of something sickening ran through him. He thought he'd puke. Too much whiskey, too much blow, and the neon lights were getting to him.

He twisted away from her with a grunt, choking back the swelling in the back of his throat, praying to Satan he wasn’t going to vomit on her right there. She looked up, her face a mix of surprise and anger.

"Hey, where are you going?"

He zipped himself up and unlatched the door.

"Sorry, love. Just not feeling it," he muttered.

"Asshole!" she spat, shakily getting to her feet.

She was yelling something, but he wasn't listening as he shoved the door open and slipped back out into the dark club, her words getting swallowed up by the pulsing bass of the music that blared and made his ears ring.

He flitted from one club to another, anxious, looking for something to fill the hole burrowing in his chest. But there wasn’t anyone who pulled his eye, and no amount of liquor satiated him. He considered poking around for more coke, or some speed, anything to pierce through the numbness and keep him riding a high. Anything. Anything.

He stared down into the whiskey in front of him that reflected ultraviolet in the light.

He’d stumbled his way into a strip club and sat by himself, spinning the glass in little circles across the tabletop as he lazily watched the girls onstage. He lifted the drink to his lips. This wasn’t any better.

Then the blood froze in his veins.

A girl caught his eye from across the room, her sequined bra reflecting the light in a thousand colors as she moved gracefully toward him in sky-high heels, her blue hair falling like a crystal stream around her face.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open as she slunk over to him, her azure hair draping over her shoulder. He gripped onto his chair, breathless as she approached, heart banging so hard in his chest he swore for a moment he was having a cardiac. 

She towered over him, looking down through thick eyelashes, her pink lips curved into a playful grin.

"What's your name, honey?"

"J-Jacob," he stuttered, his mouth dry.

"You're a shy one, Jacob," she said with a laugh, giving the end of his nose a light poke.

His lips curled back in a nervous smile. _ Anything but _, he thought.

"I'm Star.”

His spine was ramrod straight. She gripped the back of his chair as she bent down, her perky breasts pressing together.

He wanted to reach out and touch her as her hips moved, to feel the warmth of her against him, and it took every ounce of restraint in his liquor-addled brain to keep his hands to himself, lest he be grabbed up by the back of the collar and thrown face-first into the street.

The movement of her hair blinded him and he could see Angel above him, her bronze skin draped in sequins and glitter, horrifyingly just out of reach, her soft brown eyes on him. His jaw clenched. Star didn’t smell like her—Angel’s cocoa butter skin, the faint scent of rose in her hair, and something underneath that was just… her. This girl smelled like cotton candy, sweet and cloying and overwhelming. Her blue hair grazed his cheek and his eyes slid shut.

He could feel her under him, his hands in her hair as he pushed into her and drew out needy little moans just for him. The warm expanse of her back and her clenched thighs and ecstacy of her tightening around him as she spilled over with his name on her lips. A secret little song, just for him. Only for him.

"Ange'."

It slipped out of his mouth and stunned him into rigid silence. Star gave him a little smile.

"Ange'? Is that your girlfriend's name?"

His mouth gaped as he searched for words. He clenched his knees together, cock straining against the unbearably tight confines of his jeans

"N-no, no. No, she’s not."

“Well, must be someone important if you’re thinking of her right now,” she chuckled.

He let out a long groan, focusing all his attention on her hips and the edge of her frosting-pink panties that glittered in the neon light and her skin that looked so soft and perfect. This was what he was paying for, what he was looking for. The least he could do was pay attention.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t stop the thoughts of her that clawed into his brain and ripped him away from the girl in his lap.

His racing pulse was deafening in his ears and he was sweating, nails digging into the chair to keep him still. Christ, what was wrong with him?

Star eased up, giving him a concerned look as he panted, his eyes wide.

"You okay, big boy?" she asked gently.

"No," he grunted, shifting under her.

She moved away as he shakily got to his feet, clinging to the chair to keep himself steady. He managed to pull his money clip out of his back pocket and handed a fifty over to her.

“Not your fault, I'm… not feeling well. Thanks, love.”

She took it, stunned at how quickly he’d shifted.

“Sure,” she said quietly as he made for the door in a rush.

He had to get home.

  
  


Murdoc stumbled in after swiping his card about a hundred times, the door banging hard off the wall as he slammed it open, gripping onto the handle to keep himself upright.

Angel clung to the railing of the balcony as she whipped around, one of his cigarettes between her fingers. She wiped her eyes quick with the side of her hand.

“Murdoc?” she called as the door swung shut, stamping out the cig fast. “Are you okay?”

He looked panicked and out of breath, his wide eyes laser focused on her as she cautiously approached.

“God, you look… awful.”

In a few long steps he was in front of her, grasping her by the wrists and tugging her toward the couch. He fell hard onto it, staring up at her, his hands clamped tight on her arms.

“C’mere,” he hummed in a hoarse voice.

Angel clenched, wanting to pull away, wanting to let him hold her, hopelessly stuck in-between.

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to ream him for getting high and loaded and leaving her behind. She wanted to let her jealousy bubble up thinking of the lavender girl on his arm. But the look on his face made her brain empty.

She clicked her tongue.

"Jesus Christ, Muds, it's almost three and you look like you got run over—"

“Just,” he started, frustration building. “Just, _ please _.”

She hesitated, then slowly climbed into his lap. He never said _ "please" _. The look he was giving her made her flushed and anxious. Her eyes ran over him, all disheveled and slick with sweat, and her fingers slid along the ridge of his collar in a touch that rolled his eyes back.

"You're covered in glitter," she snorted. "You look like a kid on spring break."

Covered in glitter, indeed. Covered in her friend's friend. He could still smell the sickly sweet vanilla of her perfume on him, under the sweat and the liquor and the smog. It all blended into an odor that she couldn't place. But the iridescent glitter spread all over him plunged a knife into her that made her stomach lurch. It was on his face, his arms, his chest… everywhere. And planted right on his cheek was an angry red mark where her hand had come down on him. She knew she should have apologized, but she didn’t want to. She couldn’t make herself. Part of her was glad it hurt.

_ He can do what he wants _, she reminded herself. He didn’t belong to her. She had no room to be upset.

He watched her face carefully, closely, taking in her twisting, unsure expression, his hands running over her arms. Her eyes were red and glassy, her cheeks wiped with streaks of mascara. _ Crybaby. _

His hands gripped her hard. Where the lavender girl had been earlier, Angel now sat, looking much less lustful, much less enthused. But his heart was racing, electric, pounding in his chest.

It frightened him.

He couldn't even remember that girl's name. Or the dancer. Or his own name. But his brain was screaming hers.

He looped Angel's arms around his neck, reaching down to run his hands over her thighs, groaning with satisfaction, finally able to touch what he couldn't stop fucking thinking of. Angel watched with wary eyes. His hand slipped underneath her jaw, cupping her face, pulling her close into him. The half-lidded, searching look on his face silenced her, stole the air from her lungs.

He closed the space between them with a delicate, careful kiss that was unlike him. A barely-there kiss. His eyes were open, looking at her, and she could feel his whiskey breath shuddering in bursts against her lips.

This was different. He didn’t understand why.

One touch should have been as good as another, but it wasn't. The lavender girl's earnest efforts only gave him a semi, but this innocent touch made him rock hard. She was no dancer; she didn’t move to impress him, or smile, or tease. But he could feel her breaths grow quick and her plush lips part with an inaudible gasp. It was honest. It was real. It made him want more.

Murdoc bit down softly on her lower lip, running his tongue along it slow. Angel’s eyelids were fluttering, her breaths heavy, apprehension melting away into lust. Her hesitant hands finally cupped his face pulling him closer.

He could smell the lingering scent of rose in her hair as it brushed against his cheek and he ran his fingers through it, gripping tight as he plunged his tongue between her lips, his hand clutching her at back. He moaned loud into her mouth, overflowing, completely undone, desperate to get as close as he could to her torturous body.

He grabbed hold of the hem of her shirt, and pushed it up her naked stomach. Before she could stop him, he leaned in, dragging his wet tongue up her breastbone. A halting yelp shook out of her, her spine arching, neck craning. His hand pressed hard into her back, his face tilted up to watch her twist in his grip, eyes wide and focused on her.

He wanted to hear her, wanted to do whatever he could to make her keep making that sound. What he was doing made her speechless and her breaths go ragged. She couldn’t say anything. Moaning was all she could do when he touched her. He was making her happy, doing something that didn’t cause pain, for once. And she was making those sounds just for him. It was more than he could take.

He felt something, and it twisted his chest and filled him with an indescribable longing.

His hands gripped onto her as he rested his head against her stomach, his breaths running over her skin.

"Tell me you want me, love," he said quietly.

His voice was strained, almost pleading, and Angel snapped from her haze of lust, her hand coming down on his cheek. He panted, staring up at her with drunk, wild eyes that sobered her. She stroked his skin with her thumb.

“Murdoc… you gotta stop.”

"What, you afraid of me?" he slurred.

"No,” she said, looking down at him.

"Do you not want me?"

A pang of guilt shot through her. He looked hurt. She desperately fought the urge to let him keep going.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you. But something’s wrong. I’m not doing this.”

He clenched his jaw, hands clamping down on her, nails digging into her through her jeans.

“I want you to,” he pleaded.

“I know. But I’m not going to.”

He ran his palm up her stomach, panting.

“Goddamnit, please.”

“Murdoc, come on,” she groaned, fighting the flood of lust bubbling up in her.

“Ange’...”

“Stop,” she snapped, grabbing his wrists. “Or I’ll…”

Her face fell and she tensed up.

“Crying’s not going to change my mind,” she muttered.

He reached up and touched the tears slipping down his cheeks. He didn’t even notice he was crying.

Angel struggled off his lap with a shuddering breath, trying desperately to gain control of herself.

“It's wrong to do this now,” she said quietly.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“How d’you know what’s wrong and what's not for me? That’s presumptuous. I’m a grown man, not some snot-nosed boy that’s never fucked drunk before. Really, Ange’, do you even know me?”

She glanced back at him, tucking her shirt back into her jeans, then looked at the floor.

“Sometimes when Billy would take me out, I could tell he was in a mood. I knew as soon as we got home he’d be climbing on me. So… I’d drink. I’d knock back enough so that by the time he got into me… I didn’t feel anything. And he didn’t seem to even notice or care. As long as he could get off.”

Just thinking about it made her sick. She looked back at him.

“I’m not doing that to you.”

A pit was swallowing him whole as he tensed his fingers up on the couch, rage bubbling up inside him, burning his throat, words collecting in his mouth that he had to choke back. _ Fucking Billy Boy. _

“It’s… not the same," he muttered. "I'm telling you I want to. Sober, drunk, it's all the same when it's coming from me.”

Her face softened.

“Maybe, but I still won't. I’m sorry.”

He eyed her sad, restrained face. Something wasn't right. Angel's hands twisted together.

“We… shouldn’t be doing this, anyway.”

Murdoc’s face crumpled up.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re here to work, remember? Not… mess around. Or did you forget that?”

He shook his head.

“I can do both.”

“I can’t.”

His eyes snapped back up to her. She looked like she was holding back, her hands clenched tight.

“You can either have me work for you, or you can feel me up. But this... is too much to sort through. All this playing around… it's getting messy. And it'll just get messier.”

He couldn’t breathe.

No. Not this. Not now.

That was an impossible choice.

“It’s just…” He shook his head, desperation flooding him. “It’s just sex.”

Angel’s teeth gritted, the knife in her gut twisting with the coating of glitter that caught the light as he moved, and the stranger's smell lingering on his skin.

She needed to make him drop it.

“I know, but it just complicates things.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said, getting to his feet, swaying. “It doesn’t need to. You like it, I like it. It doesn’t have to be anything more difficult than that.”

“Look, I like working with you. I like your company. I don’t want that to change. I don’t want something to ruin that.”

“What would ruin it?” he said, shaking his head, his stare wild and pleading.

Angel bit back her words, thinking carefully.

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. Billy and I worked just fine together before we hooked up. His feelings, his ego… made it go bad.”

He choked out a mocking little laugh.

“That’s not a problem for me. I don’t feel _ anything _ . Work is work, and sex is sex. That’s it. You don’t have to worry about me getting… attached. We can do it without it meaning anything. You're not my girlfriend, I just want _ this _.”

It was like he punched her in the stomach. She had a hard time getting her breath back.

She was right, before. Right at the very start. It didn’t mean anything to him. She was just another body—replaceable, meaningless. She meant as much to him as whoever had been all over him tonight. He was just looking to top-off his evening by nailing her, too.

Angel struggled to get a grasp on herself, trying to force words out.

“I understand that,” was all she could manage.

He could feel her slipping away. Everything was quickly circling the drain. He had to say something, anything to make her stay. He'd strong-armed her too much, came off too desperate. Of course she was scared, he’d made it seem too serious, like he wanted something more. He had to back-pedal, take the pressure off.

He rose his hands up in front of him, trying his best to lower his voice.

“You and I work together. That’s it,” he insisted, desperate to get her to understand. “Nothing else. So it–it doesn’t need to be complicated! It’s purely recreational. Convenience.”

Every word that came out of his mouth squeezed her heart until it was ready to burst in her chest. She could feel tears starting to well up in the corners of her eyes.

_ “Go fuck yourself _,” was what she wanted to say. It buzzed on the tip of her tongue.

“I… I get it. But I’d rather not find out,” she said in a shuddering voice that she tried to even out. “I’m trying to be professional about this.”

Now he was shaking.

That was it? She could just throw everything away so easy? She didn't want him anymore? She played with him enough and now that she saw him start to cut loose, she was done? Was she just faking it, that she wanted him in the first place? He found that hard to believe with the way she looked at him when he was inside her. It had to be her good-girl act, telling her that casual sex wasn’t moral or right. It had to be that. Maybe he just wasn’t convincing enough.

“I–I can keep it professional,” he insisted. “I’ll write you a fucking contract, if that’s what you need to prove it. Consider it… a perk of the job.”

Angel had to choke down screams, vibrating in place. He was just making this worse and worse with each callous, cold thing that came out of his mouth.

She tried to get a handle on herself, tried to reason it all out in her mind to keep herself from going ballistic.

Wasn’t this what she wanted? Uninvolvement? No feelings? She shouldn’t have messed around with him in the first place. She knew from the start that there was no way that getting close was going to end well. But thinking that and feeling it happen were two radically different things.

It wasn’t his fault, she knew that, but she hated him for every word he said. He wasn’t a nice person. She knew that, too. He told her that. He was selfish and cruel, and she was just a convenience. But this was worse than she thought.

Angel took a long breath.

“We can talk about this when you’re not drunk,” she finally said.

He tensed. He didn’t want to talk about it.

“There’s nothing else to say. Either you want to fuck me, or you don’t. And there isn’t anything else to discuss past that.”

She was trembling.

“It’s not that simple, and you know it.”

“Just because you don’t know how to keep your emotions in check doesn’t mean you have to punish me for it. If you caught real feelings for me, then you're even more naive than I thought.”

Panic and anger flooded her.

“I _ don’t _have feelings for you!” she burst out, too frightened to say anything else.

“Then what’s the problem?!”

They stared at each other, wide-eyed and shaking.

“I–I’ll be back later,” she mumbled, turning away.

He stood stiff, unable to collect himself in time to keep her from walking to the door and disappearing, leaving him alone in the unbearable silence.

He panted, every inch of him pulled tight and tense. His hand curled into a fist and slammed into the wall, punching a hole right through.

Murdoc’s chest rose and fell with short breaths, his knuckles red and starting to bead with blood.

Why the fuck couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut?

Angel walked.

She walked ten cross-streets before she could make herself stop for one second to process what had just happened, hot tears flooding down her face.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to grab him by the throat and punch his lights out.

It was one thing to know all of it in her head, but to hear it out of his mouth… killed her.

He was just putting into words what was already going on between them. They were dancing around it, not saying it directly, but both of them knew this was physicality that was never going to turn into anything more than that. They were messing around because they were around each other all the time. And that was it. She hated herself for even letting it go this far.

This was for the best, getting ahead of it now, before it spiraled out of control.

But she still felt her heart in her mouth when he looked at her. She wanted to be beside him. She wanted more. But she knew from the very beginning that she couldn’t have any more than what there was. She shouldn't have even had this much at all.

Angel took long, measured breaths, closing her eyes.

She'd been projecting—just because she was lonely and desperate for companionship, for affection, didn't mean he was. _ She _ was the desperate one, not him. Desperate enough to trick herself into thinking maybe he felt one ounce of compassion for her, one little twinge of a feeling.

She was an out-of-towner. _ He _ was a professional vagabond, an expert drifter. She still clung to the hope for long-lasting human connection and he… didn't. For him, it was just whatever was in front of him right that second. He was right—they weren't the same at all.

She had to pack it all down, swallow those feelings.

She knew it would be easy to just leave, especially now that she was back in the States. She could use the rest of the money in her account to rent a car and drive back down south, try to get a job, and just disappear. No Murdoc, no Billy. A clean slate. But she didn’t want to run away again, she couldn't. She'd never forgive herself for tucking her tail for the hundredth time.

She could keep herself in check. She could still be around him, still work with him, still be his sort-of friend. That was what she wanted in the first place. Getting emotionally and sexually involved were what was going to get her feelings hurt. She just had to take those out of the equation. She’d keep herself under control until the album was done and then…

_ And then. _

Those words felt like looking over the edge of a cliff without knowing how deep the water was underneath.

She blinked away her tears.

_ Go sideways. _


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Tagged warnings: mentions of sexual/physical abuse, explicit rough sexual content. **
> 
> Angel's song in this chapter is "Real Men" by Mitski.

* * *

He was asleep when she came back in, passed out on top of the sheets in his clothes, still coated in glitter, his hair slicked back out of his face. She could see a smear of lipstick on his neck as she stood over him. Her eyes traveled to his busted-open knuckles to the fresh hole in the wall.

Everything felt different, slightly to the left. It wasn't really any different, she knew that. Everything was exactly the same, he just said it out loud.

He could do what he wanted, fuck who he wanted. And she could do that same. She was temporary. He was temporary. None of it mattered. When all of this was over, it would be like a dream anyway. She just woke up early.

She stood still, trying to swallow the bubble of grief that welled up in her chest.

_ It's his business, not yours. He's not yours. He's not yours._

But that barely helped.

_ What a crybaby._

She couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to wake him up. Angel turned away, slipping back to the door, leaving him to himself, and disappeared quietly down the hall.

Murdoc sat in front of the stage clutching his drink. This was more like it.

His eyes were fixed on the girl circling the pole, her hips keeping him transfixed, music blaring from the club speakers. Her pink hair shone in the light, running over her shoulders, brushing against the curve of her breasts as she moved.

"Ange', I've got a nice big tip with your name on it if you come here," he said with a laugh.

Her bralette and panties were dripping with crystals that rattled and threw speckles of rainbow light as she danced, her back sliding down the pole, looking right at him with her dark eyes.

"You've got a promising career alternative, love," he chuckled, lifting his glass to his lips.

In her glittering platform heels, she towered over him, her hair falling over her face as she stepped down off the stage and climbed into his lap.

"You could be a star, heh-heh."

He was in his prison jumpsuit, unzipped to the waist and tied around his hips. Her fingers ran through his hair. A long groan rattled out of him, his hands running over the curve of her ass, up to her waist. Her skin was so warm.

"Here, in front of all these people?" he laughed. "That's not like you."

"There's no one here."

The silence was deafening.

His eyes flicked around the empty room.

No music. No patrons. No dancers.

His hands gripped onto her thighs and his words got caught in his throat when he looked back up at Angel. She was crying.

"Hey, hey, what is it?"

His palm cupped her cheek.

"Why are you like this?" she managed.

His hand clenched around her leg so tightly that his nails dug into her skin. She didn't flinch.

"I don't know."

He could feel her tears slip under his palm.

"Why did you bring me here?"

His brow crumpled, head shaking in confusion.

"I don't… I don't understand."

There was a sound fading in and out in the distance, he realized—waves. He patted her leg and she climbed off him. He walked to the window, a creeping sense of dread slowing his footsteps to a crawl.

The ocean, stretching out in every direction. They were on a frighteningly familiar island.

"No, no, no, no," he pleaded, backing away from the window.

The sound of the waves was deafening, overwhelming, an ignorable heartbeat.

"No, not again, no…" he hyperventilated, unable to tear his eyes away from the endless water.

He backed up until he bumped against something that made him freeze. The bars of his cell, surrounding him. Trapped like a rat, again.

And Angel was gone.

"Ange'!" He grabbed tight onto the bars as hard as he could. "Don't leave me here! Don't!"

"It's what you deserve."

His ears perked at the familiar voice, and a tall, scrawny figure edged out of the shadows. His heart leapt.

"2D! Thank fuck for you. Get me out of here. Now!"

His cold black eyes stared right through him and his pale hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar and slamming his face up against the bars. He twisted his shirt until Murdoc was clawing at his wrist and gasping for breath.

"D!" he choked. "Let me go! D!"

"Christ!"

The sheets were drenched with sweat as he shot up, sucking in quick, panicked breaths. He grabbed at his throat, rubbing his fingers over the flushed skin.

Everything was quiet and still. No waves. No cell. No 2D.

His hand shook as he ran them over his face.

Too much whiskey. Too much blow.

"Ange'?" he called, his skull throbbing as if it had shrunk down to half its size overnight, crushing his brain. "You got any aspirin?"

Silence.

"Ange'?"

She was gone.

His eyes shot nervously to her suitcase still resting in the corner. Not gone, then, he realized. Just not _here_.

He flopped back down onto the mattress, desperately trying to wrangle his hammering heart. He'd passed out waiting for her to come back, but from the looks of it, she never did.

His head was pounding. The light hurt, closing his eyes hurt. Now he remembered part of why he gave up coke. The hangover afterward made it almost not worth it. Almost.

The knuckles of his hand were all scabbed from smashing his fist through the wall, leaving a nice hole behind in the drywall. He clenched his fist, the wound breaking back open as he grunted. Fucking Angel… He didn't understand. What was it, what had done it? What was the line he crossed that she didn't want him anymore? By all accounts, he had a tame night, if not a disappointing and vastly unsatisfying one. She couldn't have been so virginal that the drinking pushed her over the edge. Or even the blow. Then what? Just him? She'd had a glance of him in public and didn't like what she saw? The shade of red she'd turned when that goddamn what's-her-name girl starting teasing her about being his sugar baby was impressive. Maybe she finally realized she was shagging an old man, and what that looked like to other people.

He rolled off the bed, staggering over to his phone that rested on the floor. A missed call from Lenore. He groaned. Of course. She'd left a voicemail.

"_Murdoc, I know you saw I sent the contract. Get it signed. You'd better be working. Don't let me regret letting you run off the leash_."

Oh, if she only knew, she'd be tying him up to a pole right in her backyard.

He tossed the phone lazily on the bed. What a mess. He was drenched in old sweat and glitter and smelled like stale ashtray dipped in sugar. Awful, even for him.

He staggered into the shower, the freezing water bursting over him and he let out a hoarse scream, seizing up. He let it run until it burned his skin, leaving him red and panting in the heat, rubbing the coat of grease off his face. Nothing last night went well. Not a thing. To add insult to injury, he'd had three girls against him and didn't even get off once. He stared down at the glittery water curing the drain.

This was the other shoe. Nothing stayed peaceful for long.

He paced the balcony in his underwear, pushing his wet hair out of his face. Whatever. She could run herself ragged and pout all she wanted, get whatever it was out of her system. It didn't make a difference. It wasn't like he couldn't do anything without her. He had his own work. He jammed a cigarette between his teeth and lit it up with shaking hands.

She'd either come back or she wouldn't.

Angel was still gone when he got back that night, stumbling in, his clothes messed and the remnants of white powder lacing the insides of his nose. He was still hopped-up, his eyes flicking around for her.

“Ange’?”

The clock on the bedside table read 2AM. Where the hell could she have still been?

The longer he’d been out, the more he thought about what had happened and the angrier he grew, and he was hoping to stir her back up into a fight. He wanted it, he needed her to scream at him. Something. Anything. Any emotion at all was better than being flagrantly ignored.

Maybe it was better like this, he admitted. Even though he was itching to get into it again, he knew in the back of his mind that he still needed her. He still needed the album. If he was this reckless, he was going to burn the candle out too quick. He counted himself as lucky that he’d dodged his own bullet.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his pack of cigs. He leaned into the flame, lighting up, taking a deep drag.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed.

He paced the room, shakily picking under his nails with the tip of his knife, staring at the floor.

She didn't come back all night.

She didn't come back in the morning.

She didn't come back all night.

On the third morning of her absence, he noticed that her guitar and amp were gone, but her suitcase was still in the corner of the bedroom.

He was getting anxious. Maybe she was actually gone. Maybe she hooked up with some old friend. Maybe she ran away.

He didn't want to call her. That would look desperate. That would be giving her power over him. And he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He considered calling Lenore, asking if she'd heard from her. But he could just hear her shrill voice on the other end, "_You lost her?!_" That would have been worse.

A creeping thought picked at the back of his mind—what if something happened to her? He shook himself, pushing his nervousness down. She was fine. Probably.

He glanced at his phone—noon. That was late enough for a drink.

He slunk down to the hotel bar and swirled his anxiety around with his straw in a glass. Lenore called him again and again, until he finally put his phone on silent and buried his face in his hands. He'd fucked up. And he didn't even know why she was so goddamn mad. Maybe he did something he couldn't remember. Maybe he didn't do anything at all. It was driving him insane. Well, more insane.

He made his way back upstairs, dragging his feet. What the fuck was he going to do? His time was slipping away day by day, and he was wasting all of it waiting on her. How long was he going to sit on his hands?

A jolt shot through him as he stepped out of the elevator. He leaned back on his heel, pressing up against the wall, and peered around the corner carefully, catching the penthouse door close and Angel slip out, booking it for the steps. Where the fuck was she going?

He rushed back into the elevator and jammed his finger into the door-close button, his heart racing.

The elevator stopped for about three more people before he burst out into the lobby just as Angel went through the front door. He hurried, shoving past a throng of tourists to follow her out onto the street, pressing up against the wall of the building when he saw her. He wrinkled his nose up. She was wearing something new—a black top that cut across her middle, giving him a nice peek at her back, her legs wrapped in tight jeans. She'd had the same little wardrobe for... two months? Three months? He couldn't remember. Something new made him uneasy and he couldn't imagine why.

He waited for her to get a good distance ahead before he tailed along behind, watching her carefully.

She was just wandering, it seemed. He followed her to a cafe where she certainly took her time, a record shop that she lingered around in forever, and onto the metro where she nearly gave him the slip. It was a struggle to keep up with her in the thick crowd of people, and he nearly missed her getting off the train. Then he realized she had a destination, eventually. It was just starting to get dark, and she popped into a wine store. He hovered outside, keeping his head down until she came back out with a nice little decorative paper bag in-hand. His brow crumpled. That wasn’t something you got for yourself. Was it for him? Realization dawned on him and he fought back a little cackle. Who else would it be for? New clothes, wine… He knew she couldn’t stay mad at him forever.

Then she went into a grocery store, and he barely had time to smoke half a cigarette before she came back out and he had to hurry over from across the street. Another little bag was in her hand, and a wrapped bunch of flowers in the other. He scoffed. That was laying it on thick. But he didn’t hate it. He was a more-is-more kind of guy, and anything that stroked his ego was fine with him.

She was making her way back to the hotel and Murdoc had to restrain himself from catching up and grabbing her by the shoulder to make her shriek. He’d wait till she got back up to the room to make her scream. Maybe she’d be in a more pleasant mood.

But then she passed the cross-street to the hotel. Something else she needed? She was looking at her phone, then up at addresses as she passed each building. She was looking for a specific place. He followed behind until she glanced up at an apartment complex and went up the stairs, buzzing the door.

What the fuck was this?

He hurried up the steps as quietly as he could and jammed his boot into the door before it clicked shut, peering in carefully. Angel was waiting for an elevator, looking down at her phone. He tiptoed into the lobby, sliding up against the wall until he heard the doors open and close. He looked up at the numbers blinking—the twenty-first floor. 

He pressed the up button about ten-thousand times till the doors opened, and he tapped his foot impatiently the whole way up, arms folded tight. What the hell was she doing here? 

The hallway was empty by the time he got up to the right floor, and he hissed under his breath. He carefully leaned his ear to each door, listening closely, until he heard her laughing behind one. He pressed his hand against the wall, straining to hear what she was saying, but it was too muffled. But he did hear a man. Two men.

Then all he could hear was his pulse rushing in his ears. She couldn’t shag him, but slumming it with strangers was just fine? Her laugh made his temper flare.

Before he could stop himself, he was ripping the door open and burst in.

Angel was sitting at the kitchen counter, her fingers wrapped around a glass as a very pretty man poured her wine, and another equally pretty man sat right beside her. Angel froze stiff, her mouth falling open, and Murdoc’s face flushed an impressive shade of red.

“M-Murdoc, what the fuck?!” she blurted out.

“_You_ what the fuck! _This_ is where you’ve been going?!” 

“This is June’s apartment, you idiot!”

June herself peeked around the corner sheepishly, clutching her own glass. Murdoc could feel his entire body vibrating with pulsing heat, and he couldn’t figure out if he was embarrassed or angry. Angry was a safe bet. He jabbed his finger at the men, who looked an equal mix surprised and frightened.

“Wha… but… Who are these two slags?!”

“These are her friends!”

He could feel the walls closing in, growing smaller and smaller, his breaths coming in quick.

“Well… w-where the fuck have you been?”

“In the other room!”

“What _other_ room?!”

“The one under us, genius.”

He could’ve slapped himself. He told her right at the beginning that he rented the room under them so they wouldn’t get anyone complaining about the noise. She must have gotten the key from the lobby. He was a moron.

But he was already here, and he was already making an ass of himself. Anxiety trembled through him. He had no other choice, he had to double-down.

“What the fuck am I paying you for? To run around town and live out your Sex in the City fantasy?”

“I’ve been working! I—”

She shook her head, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. He’d tailed her here and she didn’t even notice. Was it that easy to take her by surprise? That thought frightened her. She was lucky it was him and not Billy.

“How long were you following me?”

His lips curled back in a sneer.

“I had a right to know where you were fucking off to.”

“No, you didn’t! And you _certainly_ had no right to barge in here like that! What the hell did you think I was doing?”

"It doesn't matter what you were doing, it's that you buggered off and left me in the lurch! I've got a deadline, you know!"

"Like you spend your time wisely."

He bristled, his fists clenching at his sides. The blonde man beside her nervously piped up.

“Uh, look, why don’t we all calm down—”

“Shut up,” they both yelled, and he shrank back into his seat.

“Well, if you’re doing just fine on your own, why don’t I just fly back to Manchester and let you play around here?”

“Why don’t you?!” she shouted.

The both of them stared at each other, Angel’s face draining of color as her mouth opened back up, but it was too late to take it back. 

Murdoc clenched his jaw and before she could even think of anything to say, he turned and slammed the door behind him, disappearing, and left Angel clutching her glass like a cross to her chest.

June hovered behind her, clicking her tongue.

“God, he’s a psycho.”

The corners of Angel’s eyes were dewed with tears that threatened to fall, and she blinked them away. The shame of what she’d said blanketed everything he’d done, and she couldn’t believe she’d said something that cruel.

She wasn’t lying, she’d been hiding right under his nose. He got the key for the room downstairs from the front desk and let himself in. The bedsheets were messed and her guitar was resting in the corner with her amp.

He snatched up the book from the table, flicking through it. She really was working—it was full of scratched-out lyrics and pages of songs. He felt his ears going red. She’d just holed up downstairs and worked.

His eyes darted over the words, and the more he read, the more the flame of his anger was stoked. Was this a joke? He read the same song over and over, his teeth grinding together. He snapped the book shut.

_Bitch_.

It was late before Angel could make herself drag her feet back to the hotel, heading up to the spare room and wrapping her fingers around the handle. She considered going upstairs for a long moment before pushing the door open.

The lights were already on.

And Murdoc was sitting on the couch.

He was picking at the bass laying across his hips. She eyed him, and he was looking at her, shirtless, his face unreadable and stone-stiff. Her gaze slid down to her notebook laying open on the table next to his, her lyrics on one side, and scribblings of tabs on the other.

All the air squeezed out of her lungs.

She’d just left it out, never thinking that he’d ever even realize that she was right under him.

"You _have_ been busy," was all he said, his fingers still moving, the bass humming in the amp on the floor.

She set her phone and wallet down, the key card slapping down on the stand by the door.

"I told you,” she muttered. “You fucking creep.”

He leaned down and picked up a bottle of whiskey from the floor, sliding it across the tabletop. He already had a glass in front of him, and there was another one waiting for her.

"Care to give me a little demonstration of your work?"

Her eyes snapped from the glass, to the books, to the tattoo on his shoulder, to his tense face, her entire body feeling like it was crumpling up on itself.

"This one looks almost done," he said, staring up at her, nodding towards her book.

Angel tensed, refusing to back down. She couldn't let him see that he scared her. She couldn't give him that satisfaction. Her eyes locked on his. He wasn't smiling, not even a little. His mismatched eyes were cold and hard and intense. She broke their stare, pouring herself a splash of whiskey.

“I’m not in the mood. Not after your little stunt.”

“You still work for me, don’t you?”

“You don’t own me. I don’t have to jump just because you say so."

Angel walked to the open balcony, swallowing down a mouthful of whiskey that flooded her sinuses with vapor that burned her throat. She still had no idea what to say to him, caught helplessly between screaming at him and apologizing.

He leaned back into the couch, his eyes slinking up the back of her legs as she leaned on the railing. His fingers moved, the sound of the thrumming bass making her pulse race.

"_Real men don't need other people, and real men suck it in. Real men don't flinch or bleed in public. I think I'm a real man_."

Nerves swelled in her stomach. She could feel him watching her as he sang her words in a harsh voice.

"_Little boys cry and look around for comfort, and always get what they want. Little boys see toys and say 'I can take that'. You are my little boy_."

Her jaw tensed.

"_Though honestly, sir, all I want to do is get naked in front of you, so you can look me up and down and tell me 'Well done, girl, you're looking good'_."

She could feel his anger in the way his fingers picked the strings harder.

"_Real men keep cool in the face of a fire, go down with the ship. And real men don't eat because they're above that, damnit. I'm going to be a real man_."

Her eyes blinked closed, her face burning hot as the words came out of his mouth.

"_But little boys hold me, color me, praise me, make me feel lovely, for a little while. So little boy, say you want me, cause I can't take it. Go ahead and do it_."

Her body quaked with shame. It was a cruel thing to have written, something she never intended for him to see, something to take out her anger and frustration and sadness so that she didn't take it out on him. But it seemed like she did anyway. But quietly, underneath her regret, she was glad it hurt.

The air turned silent and empty.

His boots clacked against the floor—one, two—echoing until they stopped and she felt him behind her. But she couldn't let herself turn around. What was he going to do? Maybe push her off the balcony? Maybe kick her legs apart and reach into her jeans? Either one seemed as likely as the other.

"Want to tell me what that's about?" he hissed against the back of her neck.

She didn't move, didn't turn.

"Not really," she said cooly, wrangling her nerves, lifting the glass up to her lips. "Do you want the song or not?"

He sneered, clenching his jaw. He wanted to grab her and shake her, demand to know what the fuck that was. There was no way it wasn't about him, no way in hell. It was too specific. It made him tremble with rage that she couldn't just fess up to it, just tell him to his face that she hated him, now, for whatever transgression he'd made.

Angel turned, glancing up at him with cold eyes, leaning heavy on the railing.

His face twisted up in a deep-set scowl.

She had no right to hold what he’d said against him. He was just telling her how it was. She was a hypocrite; plenty happy to play around with him as long as it wasn't pointed out to her what exactly it was they were doing.

The song rattled around in his brain. Was that how she saw him? Some pathetic, desperate cad that needed her to keep him together? A little fucking boy?

"Do you want it… or not?" she said again.

"I want to know why you're so bloody pissed. One second, you're just peachy with me jamming my tongue in your mouth, and the next, you want nothing to do with me. What the hell'd I do to you, huh? Other than be up-front?"

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it?"

He grit his teeth and wagged his finger at her.

"Ooh, don't start."

"I'm not starting anything. You're the one that didn't want to discuss whatever the fuck is going on here."

"You know exactly what's going on!"

"I told you, it'll end messy."

"And I told you that I'm not the one who can't keep their emotions in check! I don't know what your problem is, but—" he started.

"You," she snapped. "You are my problem."

He scoffed, feeling the all too familiar tremble of rage stirring up in him, the tremble that usually grew until he was unable to keep himself from going completely feral. The Devil had him.

He wanted something, anything from her. Anything besides being ignored. Anything was better than silence. She had to look at him, now. Had to talk to him. And if he had to make her hate him to do that, he would.

"Please, enlighten me. I gave you a job, a place to live, I busted the shit out of your ex's place, and I put you up in a penthouse suite. I dislocated my jaw going down on your cunt," he snapped, grabbing his jaw to illustrate his point. "So, please, tell me what your problem with me is. I'd rather have you say it straight to my face."

"So you think I'm a hooker you can buy favor with by adding up your expenses and throwing them in face? You think giving me shit means I have to fall in line and bend over for you?"

"I think you're awfully self-righteous for someone who's more than happy to have me around when it's convenient."

"That's the last stone you should be throwing."

His lips curled up in a sneer.

"Well, fine, you only liked fucking around with me when it was convenient. Which usually, I'd be fine with, but don't try to turn around and hold it over my head, pretend your nose is clean and mine's not. I'm just honest about what I want and you want to keep pretending you're on some moral high-ground. Like you're too good for me."

"It's not your honesty I've got a problem with. It's that you either get your way, or you throw a tantrum. You never give a shit what you say to anyone. I don’t need to bend to the whims of another selfish man."

His sneer turned into a smirk.

"I think I'm a stand-in for your last front-man, and you're projecting all your old shit onto me."

"That's bullshit," she snapped.

His eyes narrowed.

"Maybe that's what this whole thing's been for you, some kind of sado-masochistic fantasy. Getting to fuck Billy without getting the shit kicked out of you. Were you thinking about him with my fingers in you, huh? Maybe I should have been meaner to you, would you've liked that? That seems to be your thing, having boys fuck you over.”

Her lips curled up.

“Shut up.”

“After all the shit you’ve been through, you’ve still got the audacity to think I’m wrong for wanting a string-free arrangement."

“Shut _up_.”

He talked over her, shaking, unable to stop the words that were coming out of his mouth.

“Or were you really just stupid enough to actually have real feelings for me? Cause if that’s it, then you really are a gullible doormat. But you do like to punish yourself. So go on, little girl, fall on your sword for me."

Angel slammed her glass down on the table and it shattered with a deafening smash, making him jump back. She hissed, clenching her hand, blood springing up from the cuts slashed into her skin. He took a step forward and she wrenched her palm to her chest with a grunt.

Angel got an inch away from his face, staring down at him with hard, piercing eyes that made him shrink. For a loaded second, he was sure she was going to punch his lights out.

"Get. Out."

He watched her walk into the bathroom, cradling her hand, and slam the door shut behind her. He dug his nails into his palms so hard that it burst the scabs on his knuckles back open.

His heart banged against his ribs as he slid against the wall to the floor, eyes locked onto the door.

All his fury had been doused in a second. Now he was rattled. He'd never seen her so enraged. He’d pushed her too far. That really might have been the last straw. But he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t make himself shut up. He found something that would really sting and he couldn’t resist shoving that knife in to see what she’d do.

But that look on her face… That was the look he got from everyone when he stuck the knife in _just_ the right spot. He rubbed his face, staring at the remnants of the shattered glass.

Lenore was right—the way she looked at him, the way she stayed by him even when any other rational person would have walked away long ago, the way she breathed when he got close...

She did have feelings for him. Real ones.

It made him sick to his stomach.

That's why she was angry. That's why she was so upset. It wasn't the coke. It wasn't the jokes or the public humiliation. It wasn't the idea of people knowing an old man had rattled her bones. It was him letting that girl hang all over him. It was the glitter. It was ignoring her. It was _him_.

He didn’t know how he could have let it get this far. He led her on too much, ignored too much, let things slide so that he didn’t have to be alone. He let in a stray that got too comfortable to go back outside. He should have been crueler sooner and headed this off. It was his fault.

He knew what he had to do—cut things off here and now. Tell her that she needed to forget all of it, and give her an ultimatum: either suck it up or quit. And he’d have to face the consequence that she would walk away. That was better than the alternative of her honestly thinking she could get away with harboring something in her heart for him.

That was the one thing he just couldn't put up with.

But as he nodded to himself, steeling himself to go in there and break her stupid heart into a thousand pieces, he was rooted to the spot.

He was holding a broken doll in his hands and now he felt guilty for snapping her neck. Another busted toy.

Murdoc got up on trembling legs.

He could break her heart another day.

Angel watched the tub fill up, burying her face in her hands, the sound of the water covering her muffled crying. She could hear him moving around outside, but then it was quiet, and she couldn't tell if he'd left or not. But she wasn't going to come out. Even if he asked her. She didn't want to see his face.

She was extremely lucky, she realized, as she looked down at the cuts the glass left behind. They could have been much worse. None were too deep, but they stung like all hell. She dipped her hand in the water, wincing, watching red seep out in little liquid threads from her open skin.

He was such an unbelievable ass. And he'd nailed her right to the wall. Not about Billy—that made her absolutely wild with anger that he could even think that. But about having real feelings… he was right, she was an idiot. He'd even outright told her the first time they'd messed around that he didn't want commitment, and she went right ahead anyway.

She stripped down, sinking into the burning hot water with a gasp, her skin glowing red with the heat. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck as she pulled her hair up, her shoulders shaking with remnants of sobs. He was such a bastard, and she hated that she still felt sorry for what she'd said, what she'd written. She rested her head on her knees, hugging herself close, her hand cradled into her naked chest.

What was she going to do now?

Her heart stopped as she heard the door swing open, a snap of cool air cutting through the humidity.

They stared at each other in silence. Angel pressed up against the edge of the tub, loose hairs falling in her face. And she was glaring straight at him with the most piercing look he'd ever seen from her.

He tried to keep his eyes on her face and not the bare curve of her back.

Water sloshed over the side of the tub as she stood, naked and dripping wet, staring directly into him, her hands curled into fists.

Murdoc's jaw tightened, his eyes unable to focus anywhere but her body, his mouth falling open. She was gorgeous and unimaginably frightening.

She trembled with rage, gritting her teeth through the pain in her hand.

"I don't want to hear another word from you."

He swallowed, snapping up to her glare. She didn't move to cover, herself or back down, standing defiant and dripping.

"You'd better get out before I do," she warned.

Murdoc didn't know how to control his eyes, looking from her face, down the trails of water dripping over her chest, to the floor, and back up her legs as he took silent steps forward.

He knew he should've just said the words "I'm sorry", even if he didn't mean it. He knew that would at least start to put him in better graces, maybe he could repair some of the damage. But he couldn't make himself say it. He never could, even if his life depended on it. And several times, it had. But the words would never come out.

But he could give her something else. The only thing he had to give her. He owed it to her after dragging her around by the hair. She’d been a fun toy, it was only fitting that he let her play with him instead, for once.

His heels nearly slipped on the tile floor as he walked right up to her. She just glared at him, her arms rigid. He kicked his boots off, and her stomach opened up into a pit when he reached for his belt. She watched with wide eyes as he unbuckled himself and pulled his jeans down, briefs and all.

Her glare shot away.

"You must really want to die," she spat.

He looked up at her, growing closer to the edge, and threw his leg over the side, climbing into the hot water. Angel was rooted to the spot, desperate to gain control of herself, trembling with anger and fear and a creeping desire that made her ashamed.

He got on his knees, hands wrapped around the backs of her thighs, his gaze holding her tight. She didn't move. She couldn't. She stared down at him, unable to make words come out, or run, or do anything as he leaned in close. His mouth fell open, his long tongue rolling out over his sharp teeth, and dragged up the inside of her leg.

Angel's hand shot out and grabbed him hard by the hair, holding him in place, unable to move forward, unable to move back. He winced, his black eye shutting as a shiver went through him, clutching onto her thighs.

She couldn't decide what she wanted more—to push his head under the water and drown him, or let him do whatever he meant to. She hated that even through her anger, he felt so fucking good.

He was a horrid son of a bitch.

Angel twisted, pulling his hair harder in her fist, and an obscene little groan burst out of him.

Her face flushed.

He liked it. He _wanted_ her to hurt him.

She pulled him back from her leg, forcing his neck to crane up to look her in the face. He panted, his red eye staring up at her.

Her voice echoed around the room.

"You think letting me smack you around is going to make everything okay? That you can just do whatever you want, say whatever horrible shit you want to me as long as you make up for it with your dick? Are you out of your mind?"

His gaze flicked from her to the mirror ceiling, where he could see her grabbing him, and the reflection of his pained face. He let out a little shudder, but said nothing, completely submissive.

Angel's jaw tightened. She was an upsetting, equal mix enraged and excited. Did he really think sex was what she needed? That that was going to fix everything when it was what was making everything worse? But she would have been lying to herself if she said the look on his face wasn't turning her on. She wanted the comfort of being touched, but it hurt to look at him.

_ "Were you thinking about him with my fingers in you?"_

She could hear him saying it again in her head and it rekindled her anger, making her twist his hair hard. He grunted, leaning into the pain.

One of his hands slid between her legs, running up until he just barely brushed against her. She snatched his wrist with her free hand, keeping him still.

"You still think this is about getting your way?" she snapped.

"... No," he groaned. "Your way."

She tensed.

He wasn't fighting her. She could feel him pliant in her hands. He looked pleading, waiting for her to do something. There wasn't one ounce of pride left, just submission to whatever it was she decided to do to him. Was this… a fucking apology?

She eased her grip on his wrist, keeping a hold of his hair to force him to look at her. He let out a shudder, the tips of his fingers running along the slit of her. She gripped hard, sucking in a quick breath.

"You're such an ass," she hissed. "If you think this is going to make everything better, you're insane."

_ You're letting me do it,_ he thought, leaning in. _And I am insane._

His hand gripped her hip as he ran his tongue along her, and he slowly slipped his middle finger inside. A strangled moan got caught in her mouth. Angel grabbed the back of his hair with her other hand, pulling him in close. She felt so warm, it made his eyes slip close and his entire body go tense. He ran his tongue over her in long, hot strokes.

He looked so vulgar, his mouth open and his eyes glazed. Absolutely shameless. Her nails bit into his scalp, one hand gripping his hair, the other pressed against the back of his head. He slipped in another finger.

"G-goddamn prick..." she struggled, her breaths coming quick out of her mouth.

He moaned against her.

There was no faking this, the way she shook, the way she grabbed him. If she hated him, she wouldn't be pressing his wet mouth into her like she was. She wanted him. She wanted _him_.

Angel rolled her hips into him, her neck craning. She was so angry and so gone. The faster he moved, the more she was losing her grip on him.

He needed it harder. He needed this to be a punishment. But she was all soft edges and so goddamn easy to tame, even with rage in her eyes. Her hands were too gentle.

Murdoc turned and bit down on the inside of her thigh, and she wrenched his hair in her fist, a yelp leaving her. She pulled him away and forced him down till his face was just barely above the water. She glanced down at her leg, wincing. Dark red marks puckered up on her flesh, a perfect outline of his teeth. And he was smirking.

Angel shoved his head under the water, holding him down. That was going to bruise.

He struggled, grasping at her wrist, but she could tell it was more of a show than anything else. _What an ass_. She pulled Murdoc back up and shoved him, sending him scrambling for purchase against the slick edge of the tub.

She sucked in a long breath and turned away, trying to get herself to step out, her hands clenching into fists. What he was doing wasn't a kindness. This was just fighting in a different way.

His hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm. He wrapped himself around her, his chest burning hot against her back.

He was giving her one last chance before he cut her loose, and he wasn’t going to let her throw it away to save face, to look proper. He wanted to scream at her, shake her, make her understand that it was okay. He needed her to understand.

_ Just let me fucking do this for you. Let me give you what you want._

She didn't move to stop him, standing still, her eyes slipping closed. He pulled her bun out, yanking on it till her hair fell loose around her shoulders. His hand slid up the back of her neck as he leaned in, his fingers wrapping around her one by one, nails gently digging in.

"Fine, you don’t want to take control?" he goaded, biting her earlobe, his other hand sliding along her stomach. She could feel him hard against the small of her back. "If you're not going to, then I will," he whispered.

Her elbow shot back and rammed him in the chest, sending him crashing breathless into the water.

If he wanted her to take out her anger on him so badly, she'd give him some. It wasn't like he didn't deserve it.

He coughed, grasping for the side of the tub, pulling himself up. She grabbed him by the hair, yanking back until his neck was exposed, his adam’s apple bobbing with desperate attempts to catch his breath. Angel leaned in close.

"Do you want me to fucking punch you, it's that it? Will giving you a bloody nose get you off?" she snapped.

"Couldn't hurt," he said hoarsely, the wind knocked out of him.

She snatched his bloody knuckles, all bursted back open and fresh, and squeezed, making him wince, his neck craning.

"Is that what you want?"

He pulled his hand from her grip and his tongue shot out, running up his knuckles, licking along the blood. Something in her vibrated.

"You're fucking sick."

"And you're not," he laughed, straining against her grasp on his hair. "You're enjoying this. Come on, love. Show me how much you hate me."

Angel hesitated. She didn't hate him. That was the problem. She was angry, overflowing with rage and sadness and fear. But she didn't hate him. She wished she did.

She let him go, roughly pushing him away, and turned to step out of the bath, dripping in a pool on the tile floor.

He looked angry now, tense and seething.

"All that horrible shit I said to you, make me pay for it! Do something about it!"

He moved to follow her and buckled.

"Goddamnit," he hissed, his hand flying to his knee as it gave out and he struggled to follow behind.

He needed her to get angry. That was the only way she’d take what she wanted. She just needed a push.

Billy was the one who wanted submission. He wanted absolute, unquestioned power. He wanted obedience, to have her never even think that she had control over what he did, and to just have her give in.

Murdoc didn't. He didn't want her to just roll over, to let him just do what he wanted because she was too scared to say no. He wanted her to fight him, to be loud, to get angry and defensive. He wanted her to be raw and real and terrible. He wanted to see her hideous and cruel. To let out everything she choked down to make herself better, that killed her inside every time she swallowed her words. It festered in her. He could see it when she kept herself from fighting with him, when she wore a fake smile. When she looked at him like she did.

He didn't want to hurt her. He wanted to hurt her _just_ the right amount to drive her right to the edge. And he would have let her beat him half to death if that meant he could watch her let go.

"You don't have the stomach to be in charge, anyway," he said from the doorway, leaning on his good leg.

Angel turned, her teeth clenching, biting back her words.

"Always need someone else calling the shots, don't you?"

He came right up to her, grasping her jaw hard. She held his stare, and he could feel her clenching her teeth under his palm, still holding back.

"So, is that what you need me to do? Call the shots?" he said in a low voice. "Do you need a rough hand? Have I been too careful with you?"

"You're projecting," she said. "I'm not the one who was getting hard being smacked around."

"You sure?" he said, looking up at her from under his wet hair. "You still think about Billy an awful lot."

That stoked the fire in her glare. Her breaths came in short and fast.

"Go to hell. You of all people should know that's not fucking funny."

"Me? I'm sick, remember? Horrible things turn you into a horrible person, no matter how much you try to hide it. You're just as horrid as me, on the inside, no matter how much you pretend you're not."

He sucked in a shaking breath.

"Come on, love. Let me do this for you. I’ll do anything you want. Scream at me, hit me, break my goddamn jaw, do whatever you need to. Stop putting on this good-girl act. Show me what a bitch you are," he hissed. "Take what you want from me. I'll give you anything. Fuck me."

The wind flew out of him as she shoved him up against the wall, his head slamming back. He was laughing, rock hard as he stared into her angry eyes.

Her tongue shot into his mouth, nails digging into his scalp as she pulled him close. He groaned into her. Her teeth bit down hard on his lip, so hard she could taste metal.

_ God, finally._

She pulled back, her mouth twisted into a scowl, and she sunk her teeth hard into the crook of his neck, her tongue running over his skin. She bit hard, hard enough to leave a sore, red mark to match the one blooming on the inside of her leg. He tasted like sweat and bitter with the lingering rub of his cologne. A long, rattling groan leaked out of him, dissolving into crazed laughter.

Satan, she felt good.

Her hand slid down his hips and she grabbed him hard, giving him a harsh stroke, a huge breath gasping into her at the feeling of him. Her nails dug into his waist till they left deep marks. He moaned, smiling against her lips. She was looking right at him, and he could see something insistent in her eyes. He peeled her hand off and lifted it up to his mouth, spitting into her palm. She wriggled back, her lips curled up in disgust, but her hand flew back down to him anyway, stroking his cock wet.

His fingers wound into her hair and pulled till her neck was curved back.

"We can do this one of two ways," he huffed against the curve of her throat. "Are you punishing me, or are we fighting?"

"Oh, we're still fighting," she spat.

"Good."

She grabbed him by the cross around his neck and pulled, dragging him to the bed, laying out on her back.

His eyes raked over her splayed out under him, his long tongue rolling out from between his sharp teeth, a wild grin plastered on his face.

"Christ, you look so fucking gorgeous when you're angry."

He bent down and dragged his tongue from her clit up her stomach, her breastbone, up her throat and her chin, leaving behind a hot trail of saliva that made her shiver as it left her cold in the air between them.

“Augh, you’re disgusting.”

“I’ll be as disgusting as you want.”

He wrapped his hands around her shoulders, pressing her down under him. Just the tip of him pushed into her, an unbearable, teasing touch that refused to give her satisfaction.

"Bastard," she hissed, her hips arching.

"You want this bastard inside you, don't you?"

She clenched her jaw. She couldn't stand that smug look on his face, and kept her lips sealed. He was being cruel, an absolute egomaniac. And she loved it.

"Tell me, Ange'. Tell me you want it."

"I'm not gonna beg," she snapped.

"We'll see," he chuckled.

He ran his wet tongue up her neck and jammed it into her ear, sending a shock of disgust and horrid pleasure through her, a strangled noise bursting out of her mouth. Her nails bit into his back, making him shake with laughter.

He slid deep into her, her head rolling back.

"F-fuck," she breathed.

He was laughing.

"Beautiful girl," he hummed.

He pulled all the way out, leaving her squirming and seething from the loss of him, his wet cock rubbing against her thigh. He was overjoyed watching her struggle, and pushed back in till he bottomed out, his wet hair splattering onto her. She wrapped her legs around his back tight, locking her ankles together to keep him from pulling out again, her face stern and tense. He rocked his hips into her, all smiles, moving faster and harder as he felt her go languid under him. The white gloves were off. He let himself go.

Her eyes faded from sharp to glassy, her mouth falling open. Even when she was furious, she couldn't hide the way he made her feel. She was an open book.

"Look what I'm doing to you, love. Absolutely unraveled. Gorgeous."

He dragged his sharp nail over her lower lip, squeezing hard. Every word that came out of his mouth was specially designed to make her angrier and angrier. And the angrier she was, the harder she held onto him. She could barely stand it. His mouth ran and her back arched. Every filthy thing that came from his mouth wound her tighter.

Murdoc has used to hate-fucking. It was something he was well familiar with, him and the other full of rage and trying their best to cause as much pain as they could. But this wasn't that, not by a longshot. This was playfighting compared to that. And he couldn't keep a straight face as she tried her best to keep up her act of resistance, even as she wrapped her legs tighter around him.

He thrusted into her, grinning an evil little smile, his cross dragging over her chest. She grabbed it tight in one fist, the other, cut-up one wrapped around his shoulder in a death grip that left behind white marks. A strangled little sound left her lips, her knees digging into his ribs.

"Am I making you feel that good? Say it. Tell me I'm making you fall apart. It's my cock doing all this to you. I bet you hate that, don't you? That this sick bastard between your legs is the one that's going to make you cum. You know you’re going to."

He was panting, flushed and sweating and taking in the absolutely overwhelmed look on her face. She looked like she was going to cry. He slowed his pace and drew close.

"You can't fool me with those crocodile tears. Play the innocent girl all you want, if it makes you feel better. You know one word from you and I'd stop. I'd be out that door in an instant. But you're the one letting me into this sweet little cunt of yours, getting wet for me. You just hate that it's _me_."

He ran his hand up the side of her face, dragging his tongue up her cheek, making her groan.

"Tell me you hate me, love. I want to hear it."

She snatched him by the throat, just under the jaw, and the sound that came out of him made her feral. Her hand clamped down hard and she pulled him close, nails digging into his throat.

"Shut up," she hissed.

He fought for breath, his eyes half-lidded, staring down at her. His hips moved faster, rutting into her hard.

"H-harder," she heard him wheeze.

She leaned back, looking up at his face, her eyes wide. He struggled in her grasp, his teeth bared in a defiant grimace.

"I said harder, goddamnit!"

A surge pulsed through her and her hand squeezed him as hard as she could bear. His eyes rolled back before they shut tight, his nails digging into her.

Her mouth fell open in a moan at the sight, her spine arching. His hands clutched on tight, leaving long scratches across her skin. He was in ecstasy. And she was doing that to him. It made her insane with desire. He looked strung out and weak and frighteningly handsome, all coated in sweat and flushed.

His pace grew wild and senseless, his head getting lighter and lighter as she choked him. It felt heinously good. And it was sweet little Angel gripping him so tight. He knew she was horrible in there somewhere.

Murdoc gripped onto her, gasping.

"A-Ange'," he swallowed against her hand. "M-more…"

"Any more and I'll choke you for real," she said in a shaking voice.

His eyes screwed up tight, lips curled back over his teeth.

"Pl-please," he hissed.

Angel grit her teeth.

She rolled over and shoved him onto his back, gripping his throat tight. His body seized up and he went rigid, Angel moving against him, her hair falling over her shoulder as she pinned him down.

His ego was reduced to nothing, his eyebrows knitted together and his mouth open with wordless moans, nails raking down her thighs. She'd never seen him so raw, brought so low that he couldn't keep his composure. Little ragged breaths left his throat that she could feel under her hand. He couldn't keep a pace anymore and let her take control, pliant in her hands, sweat beading on his skin. All hers. She wanted to hold him out on the edge like this forever, looking so unraveled and so pleading, but she could barely hold on. She was more used to trying to make herself cum than holding herself back.

Her fingers brushed his bangs away from his face with her free hand, lips hovering over his, her heavy breaths spreading hot against his skin. God, he looked so gorgeous.

"M-Murdoc," she moaned, her voice growing sharp and desperate, feeling herself begin to tense.

His eyes flicked open, locking on hers. She was close, and now she _was_ crying, overwhelmed. She looked beautiful as she was falling apart. It was all too much for her.

"Do it," he hissed around her grip. It was a struggle to speak. "Show me."

Angel huffed, her body clenching up around him. He didn't look angry anymore, or smug, or proud. He looked desperate, begging her with his eyes. He looked like he was trying to say something, but couldn't get the breath to. 

She let go.

Air burst back into him in a sharp sucking sound, blood rushing to his head so fast he thought he might pass out. He moaned, his eyes rolling back in his skull, clutching her hard as he pushed into her, spilling over.

"Aaangel!" he choked out.

A loud gasp left her lips and she grasped him tight, her eyes locked on him as she came hard, every inch of her shaking.

She collapsed onto him, gasping for breath and shuddering, Murdoc still giving her slow, deep strokes, unwilling to stop. Angel's fingers dug into his shoulders, her face buried in his neck.

"Muds… fuck…"

"Ha… don't… call me that…"

They panted and went languid, the both of them utterly spent and exhausted and drained.

Angel sucked in a deep breath as she slid off him and rolled onto her back. The relief that washed over her was unreal, like putting down a burden that was breaking her back. For one moment, she was weightless. Pure bliss.

She sat up, leaning over him. Her fingers ran over the red marks she'd crushed into his skin, the ecstasy ebbing away with the remnant of what she'd done.

"If you apologize to me, I'm going to kill you," he said in a sigh, his eyes still shut.

He was back to his normal self. But Angel couldn't help the guilt that crept up inside her.

"I wanted you to," he said. “I’d have let you strangle me to death if it meant you’d get off like that.”

Angel's mouth shut tight. Her eyes were wet.

She couldn't help feeling guilty, her hands shaking. She'd hurt him because she was angry. Even if he liked it, she shouldn't have done it.

"I don't hate you," she said quietly.

His chest rose and fell in quick bursts.

"I don't hate you, either," he mumbled.

He looked up at her as she leaned over him. She bent down and brushed her lips against his crooked, broken nose.

"Sorry, anyway."

His face was slack and tired, eyes half-lidded.

“Ange’, I’ve let a girl burn me with a cigarette cause it got her hot. I’ve been cut, pierced, prodded, and penetrated every way you can imagine. There’s very little you can do to me that I can’t take. Choke me all you want.”

He rolled over and sat up, reaching for the pack of cigarettes he'd set on the bedside table and lit one up, letting out a long sigh.

She clamored into his lap, gripping his jaw tight and smashing her lips into his. He grunted, nearly dropping his cig into the bedsheets.

She pulled back with a sigh, looking into his confused, startled face.

"You're a fucking asshole," she spat.

"I know."

"You're not sorry, are you?"

He squirmed in her grip, guilt needling at him. He was all out of apologies. At least for another half hour, maybe. He didn't bounce back as quickly as he used to, anymore.

"Plenty of horrid things you could say about me. Feel free," he muttered. "I'll give you one free punch. Just don't break my nose."

Her hands gripped tight before slipping away.

"I'm sorry... for what I wrote."

Murdoc snorted.

"Don't be. Don't ever be sorry for shit you actually think. Was pretty bitchy, though, I'll give you that. I'm no little boy."

"I know, I didn't intend for you to ever see that. I was... angry."

"I could tell. You're just a big ball of compressed rage, aren't you?"

"You don't hate me?" she asked quietly.

That stunned him. He'd unleashed a horrible tirade on her, and she was worried about what he thought of her? He took a long drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke in her face, making her eyes water and squeeze shut. She looked far too sad for him to look at.

"You care too much about what people think about you."

He slipped the filter between her lips when she opened her mouth and leaned back.

"I don't hate you. I'm the last one who should scold you for getting pissed," he admitted. "Glass houses, and all."

A silver thread of smoke drifted from the end of the cigarette as she stared at him.

Huge tears began rolling down her cheeks, and Murdoc watched, his jaw tight. Angel wiped her face roughly with the side of her hand, ash flicking into her lap as she sniffed hard.

"I'm… I don't want to talk about Billy anymore," she said in a breaking voice. "Please. I don't want you thinking anything I do with you has anything to do with him. I don't want him worming into even more of my life. Please..."

His hands tensed up into fists. Even for him, that had been low, to jab in that particular knife. Regret wasn't something he felt often, but he was sure that was the irritating little feeling that was biting at his heels.

"You… didn't deserve what you got from him," he admitted quietly. "I may have… oversold on that, a little."

He squirmed. He didn't know how to take something like that back. There wasn't a way to do that didn't involve an outright apology. And he wasn't sorry. He did what he had to to make her break. He squirmed at that thought, too. Maybe _break_ wasn't the right word, but that certainly seemed like what he'd done. He thought she'd be more relieved after this. But then again, he also expected to walk away with a fat lip.

"I know I'm weak."

He looked up as she sat back, cradling her head in one hand and puffing on his cig with the other, the one riddled with now-bleeding cuts from the glass.

"I know I'm a crybaby. I know I let too much slide. I know I let people walk all over me. You… you know what it's like to be alone. It turned you mean. It turned me… too eager. You're right, I am a doormat. I wish I wasn't. I wish I was stronger, more like you. But I'm not. I don't think I can be."

Angel jumped as he slid the cigarette from her fingers and slipped it back between his lips, leaning forward.

"You don't want to be like me," he said in a low voice. "Yeah, you're naive, and you let people push you around too much. You're a crybaby, and a softie. You feel too much. But once that's gone it never comes back—feeling. I'd… I'd kill to be able to look at someone and not immediately think of all the ways they're going to try and get one over on me. I'm not someone you should want to be like."

His eyes darted away from her.

"And you're not weak. No one comes out the other side of what's happened to you whole. Nobody. Look at me—turned me into a prick. If I can live with that, you can live with being a crybaby."

He grit his teeth, his insides twisting to keep from blurting out something horrid. All this niceness was making him nauseous.

"Don't make me have to keep talking about this," he muttered. "I was just… I wanted you to let go a little. I was just pushing so you'd stop holding back. That's all. I… may have had too much of a strong hand."

Angel looked down at the sheets, the both of them still sitting naked, left completely drained and raw.

His twisted up face betrayed him, and she could tell even he wasn't thrilled with what he'd said before storming into her bath. The sex was for her. A sick apology. He wanted her to take everything out on him so that she'd feel better. Like screaming into a pillow, but he wanted it to be his face. He had tried to do a kind thing in the most horrible way possible. She knew she should have been furious that he was willing to push her around to get her to snap, but… she was almost glad. She did feel a bit… lighter. And she would have been lying if she'd said that wasn't some of the best sex she'd ever had. All the sex she'd had with him had been the best sex she'd ever had, unfortunately.

But it hurt to look at him. She couldn't believe she'd done it again. After telling herself so many times to pull away, to stop getting involved, to swallow all those feelings down. And she still gave in to what felt good instead of what she should have done.

Her thoughts must have been written all over her face.

"You can do whatever you want, you know." Her head perked up, and he was staring. "Don't know why you're so straight-and-narrow all the goddamn time. If you like this, we can do this. You don't have to think about it so hard. You need to let things go. You said I know what I want, well, what the fuck do you want?"

She tensed.

"I don't know."

"Then do what feels right. Don't need to think ten steps ahead all the time."

He passed her the cigarette, and she eyed him, slipping it between her fingers.

"You're pretty okay when you're not being an insufferable dick."

"I have my moments."

Murdoc watched her, his chest growing tight. As the afterglow began to wane, he was left with a bitter truth that he couldn't swallow—she really did have feelings for him.

She looked so fragile, so easy to snap in half. One good jab and she'd fall to pieces. It would be so easy. He knew he had to break her heart. It was for the greater good. His good, at least. She was an anchor he couldn't tie around his neck.

But he didn't have the energy to deal with the fallout, now. He rubbed the back of his neck. He'd break her heart tomorrow.

"I think I need to cry for a little," she said in a reedy voice. "Please don't make fun of me."

He set his jaw tight.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No."

"...Alright."

He took his cigarette and laid back as she broke down, his hand idly running over her naked back, waiting for her to let it all go.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is "Satan, Luella & I" by HMLTD.

One month.

Murdoc had been gone for one month, only briefly in touch, and now he'd cut out completely.

Lenore was tearing her hair out.

It wasn't like she could just swing by and check on him. She let him out unsupervised, and now the upper-ups were starting to ask her how far along he was.

She knew better than to let him off his leash, but the man was so pathetic that she had some pity and let him loose. And now he was MIA.

Her temper was at a breaking point.

Michael, one of the mixers, lightly knocked on her door before pushing it open, snapping her out of her thoughts.

"Um, Lenore?"

"What?" she muttered.

"You uh, you should come down and see what's happening in booth two."

"Is it important?"

"It's… interesting."

She rubbed her face.

"Good interesting or bad interesting?" she said with a warning edge to her voice.

He shook his head and shrugged.

"You'd know better than me."

What the fuck did that mean?

She heard them before she saw them, her hand latched around the doorknob to the recording suite, and as soon as she stepped inside, Lenore's mouth hung open.

The rat bastard was back.

Murdoc and Angel were in the recording room, face to face, with their guitars slung around their shoulders.

And Angel wasn't the one singing. It was Murdoc.

That _ was _ interesting.

"_We've been up and down these hills, and found ourselves in different pills. I met Satan in a cheap motel. She talked at length about Orsen Welles. You were washed up on the shore. Lamb’s blood ran down your door. _"

She'd never heard him sing that loud. He'd always been self-conscious about it; one of the only things in the world, it seemed, that made him sheepish. He'd been told too many times his voice—and his face—couldn't sell, and his hopes of being front-man were ground out before she even met him. The only times she ever heard him sing with any effort, he was high or drunk off his ass. But this was something else. He looked like he was… enjoying himself, the both of them moving to the beat they were making between them. She hadn't seen him so absorbed in a long time. Obsessive, yes. But excited? Rarely.

"_Not every filth is art. Not every stranger's far. No Raoul is Madonna. No stranger is god. Not every church is strong. Not every city's wrong. No struggle is in vain, no system is safe. And no law in this world is sacred and sane. Not every man would rather be dead than in chains. Not every war's unjust. Not every faith is love. No orgasm is ever enough. _"

Angel's fingers slid fast over the neck of her mint green guitar, her lips moving close to her mic as she leaned in.

"_Soft, gentle stranger. Remember me when you're tired and old. _"

They were actually working together. That shocked her more than anything else. Anytime Murdoc was set up to work with someone, it was either utter chaos or absolute torture. She had no idea what Angel did to him, but this Murdoc was… different. 

They must have sung this over and over, the way they moved, the way they looked at each other—in tune.

"_Not every filth is art. Not every stranger's far. Not every generation is doomed to despair. Not every hate is wrong. Not every lust's a sin. Not every revolution begins from within. You were washed up on the shore. Lamb's blood ran down your door. _"

He stood up straight, the hum of the guitars fading into silence.

"Lenoreeee, if I knew you liked to watch so much, I'd have invited you to a lot more parties."

He was smirking at her from behind the glass. Her lips thinned in a tight frown.

She leaned down to the intercom.

"Muds, get out here."

He slipped his bass off and came out grinning like a cat. Lenore grit her teeth.

"The protege," he said in a sickly-sweet voice, "Really came through for old Muds. I've got a knack for finding diamonds in the rough, eh? Maybe I should do your job, Lennie."

"Mm," she grunted.

"You can tell old meat-head Ricky he's not going to be seeing me in orange again anytime soon."

"You better have something more for me. One song?"

"We've got six."

"Six?" she asked, her voice heavy with doubt.

"Oh, don't look at me, it's mostly her," he said, leaning down to the intercom. "She's a freak!"

Angel glanced up and gave him the finger.

He chuckled in his throat, flopping down in the chair.

"They're not finished, but we have them."

"Honestly, I thought you were going to come back with nothing. Or maybe alone."

"So did I."

Lenore watched him watching the girl.

"This was… incredibly fast for you. You're usually languishing for months over one song and you came back with six. What the hell happened? You crack your head and find God or something?"

Murdoc was leaning on the board with his chin in his hand, still staring at Angel from behind the glass.

"What was that?" he said absently.

"Christ, you're just as bad as Stuart."

He blinked, leaning back.

"No need to be rude, I'm not that dim."

"No, he's a love-struck idiot with every new person he latches onto."

He grunted and cracked his back.

"Don't insult me like that. We've just… come to an understanding. I think."

"Did you get her to sign the contract?"

The way his jaw tensed answered for him.

"We still need four more tracks. The contract… is going to be a last-second problem."

"The longer you put it off, the worse it's going to be."

"It's going to be bad no matter what," he muttered. "I'm just making the best of the time I've got before the bomb goes off."

"The terms aren't great. She's not going to like it."

"She's not going to like any of it. She doesn't want to do something solo, she's already told me. She's got the voice of a front-man and the attitude of a stage-hand."

"Speaking of, you're going to be on her album that she doesn't want?"

He snorted.

"She might cut that one once she finds out."

"You never sing."

"I'm full of surprises even after all these years, aren't I? She twisted my arm, had me over a barrel. She said the only way she'd let me off the hook was if I did it."

"What hook would that be?"

He gritted his teeth, scratching his cheek.

"Er… don't worry about it."

Lenore drummed her fingers against her arm.

"_She _ wrote this?"

He waved at her.

"Can't let her do _ all _ the heavy lifting, right? I've got a reputation to maintain. But she did the rest of them."

She clicked her tongue.

"What happened over there?"

"Oh, you know… Diligent work. A lot of whiskey and coke. And less sex than I would've liked."

She looked down at him in surprise.

"You… didn't…?"

"Oh, fuck yeah, of course we did. Just less than I'd have liked," he said with an evil little laugh.

She shook her head.

"You're a bastard. You're just leading her on."

His voice sobered.

"I know."

He chewed hard on the end of the pen he'd swiped from Lenore's purse, still riddled with his bite marks from last time, watching Angel through the glass.

"You were right. And you know I fucking hate admitting that to you. She's really got it for real."

She gave him a long look.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I've got no fucking idea."

"You can't just keep dragging her around by the hair, teasing her like this. It's cruel, even for you. Usually by now, you drop them if they get too friendly."

"I'll break her little glass heart soon enough. Let me get a few more songs out of her before I smash her on the ground."

Lenore stared through the window. She felt bad for the girl. When Murdoc ended things, it was scorched-earth. She would never get out unburnt.

The two of them had patched things over, sort of, in the most Murdoc way possible—via liquor and faking it.

They'd put tape over a leak in a boat, a superficial fix where they both pretended everything was fine.

After their… little spat, Murdoc suggested that they drink until they both passed out. A "hard reset" he called it. And when they woke up the next morning, everything would seem better. Like a magic potion.

Angel was extremely doubtful it would work, but extremely willing to try. Everything was confusing and horrible and wonderful and awful and fine and wrong, and she just wanted to leave her body for a while. And she certainly did, much to his amusement.

They went back up to their room upstairs and sat in the living room, Angel crouched on the floor and Murdoc lounged back on the couch, his back sore and tense. The only thing that was left was the vodka, and there was nothing to mix it with, so they drank it straight. It surprised him how well she could keep pace with him, drink for drink, how eagerly she was taking each shot. But then she dove quickly, and suddenly with the flip of a switch, she was an absolute mess, slurring and glazed-over like a tottering teenager on their first drink. It spread a grin over his face as she struggled to speak.

"I just, I just… don't understand why you always need to push it. You're always just soooo close to making me kill you, it's insufferable," she managed.

"Hey, hey, this was supposed to be about _ forgetting_, not airing grievances."

"And you just… you're so…" She lost her train of thought, staring at his neck, still red from where she'd grabbed him. "... God you really fucking liked that. That was hot."

He coughed out a laugh. Satan, was she shit-faced.

"_You're _hot," he snorted, relishing the red flush of her face.

"You—_ you're _hot!" she struggled, pressing her palms into her eyes. "God, I hate that you're hot. And you're a fucking kinky little bastard, which makes it so much worse."

He cackled, watching her flounder around. He liked this Angel better—honest to her own detriment. He could have probably asked her anything and she'd hardly be able to lie, with her mouth or her face. That thought lingered a moment before he brushed it away. That road wasn't going to take him anywhere pleasant. He forced his grin back.

"Well, what can I say? I like what I like. And I like getting fucked hard and choked out, among other tasteless, unmentionable things. They don't call it '_le petite mort _ ' for nothing. And I liked you doing it to me. Unlike _somebody_, I'm not afraid to ask for what I want. I'm at least half-done on this godforsaken planet, might as well get all my sick kicks in while I can."

She was silent as he took another drink that burned all down his throat. He wiped the corner of his mouth.

"God, if I knew I was going to just slog this down straight, I would've bought something better…"

He looked up at her and Angel was staring straight ahead.

"Oi, you having a fit or something? Do I need to roll you on your side? Stick my wallet in your mouth?"

She clung to the bottle, looking up at him, her eyes going glassy with welling tears.

"You're… twenty-two years older than me."

He scoffed.

"You're just realizing this _now_? Did you think I was just a really rough-looking undergrad?"

"Y-You're… gonna… b-before me…"

It took him a moment to realize what she meant, then he busted out in howling laughter.

Her jaw clenched. That was not the reaction she was expecting.

"You never did the math before?" he said, trying to collect himself.

She had. And she hadn't.

She knew it meant he had years of experience on her, and she knew that sometimes it made her feel very small, and sometimes it made her feel almost confident, in a strange way.

But it never hit her that a twenty year difference meant he would die long before her, more likely than not.

"I… I don't know, I didn't think about it."

Angel stared at the bottle, strangling the neck of it in her tight fists.

Murdoc's grin fell away. Those weren't just drunk crocodile tears. They were real.

He sat up as she wiped her face on her shirt.

He didn't know what to say. Did she honestly think they'd still know each other long enough for it to matter? He figured she wouldn't even be around in a few more months, let alone be around when he kicked it.

When he bit the big one, he knew no one would care. Not _actually _care, at least. And here she was—she knew him for three months and some change, and she was bawling like she was reading his eulogy right then and there.

He got down on the floor next to her, the liquor dampening the ache of his knee, but it still popped as he knelt on the carpet. He peeled her fingers off the bottle one by one and set it down on the table.

He couldn't handle anymore crying tonight, and it would be easier to placate her than try to force her to stop.

"You can plan my funeral, how's that?"

"That's not funny!" she whined.

"Heh-heh, fine, I'll plan yours. Who knows? Maybe you'll get hit by a bus tomorrow, and you're all worried about me. I'm the luckiest bastard on Earth, there's a good chance I'll outlive you. The Devil likes me."

He went rigid as she leaned in and brushed the edge of his bangs out of his face to look at him with those wide, wet eyes.

It wrenched his rotten old heart.

Sometimes his age frustrated him, his body breaking down bit by bit with the years that passed. The idea of getting older didn't necessarily bother him, other than the inconvenience of it all, like his fucked knee and his sore back. But _ dying _…

He'd always said that his passing would be mourned by every hooker and groupie around the world—monuments erected, temples built. He'd be remembered as a god.

But despite his blustering and ego, under all of it, he was well and truly terrified of the end. The thought of it bit at his heels, waiting for him to be alone in the dark and rob him of his senses, what little of that he had left. An overwhelming dread that brought him to his knees in stark, pure terror. It had gotten so bad a handful of times, that he considered if just getting it over with was better than waiting in anxious agony. But his ego wouldn't let him follow through on that thought.

So he just let the fear haunt him in his quieter moments, and desperately tried not to think about it.

But no one had ever been afraid of _him _dying. That frightened him, too, in a different way. It left him struggling for something, anything to say to fill the silence.

"I'll… leave my music behind, there's always that," he said, trying his damnedest to give her some sort of rational comfort, and that was all he could come up with.

She sniffed, rubbing her eyes.

"I guess."

That seemed to help, a little.

He gave her cheek a hard pinch that would've hurt if she hadn't been tranquilized.

"You're too soft for your own goddamn good, you know that?"

"I know," she muttered, wiping her nose on the hem of her shirt, his thumbprint red against her skin.

He stared at her, his humor drained.

It had to have been the liquor that made him so horrifyingly sentimental. He drank the rest of it down in a rush after she finally calmed herself down and promptly passed out. He started writing the song that night, smoking the last cigarette in his pack on the balcony while Angel was out cold on the floor, her face buried in pillows from the couch.

"_Soft, gentle stranger. Remember me when you're tired and old. _"

He left it out for her on the table when he went out the next day, leaving her to nurse her hangover in blessed silence, all the curtains drawn, every light out until she could bear to pull herself out of bed.

He came to regret writing it as he thought about it. He didn't know why he'd done it, why he'd felt such a bizarre stroke of sentimentality, and even worse, acted on it. Maybe she wouldn't see it and he could just quietly take it back.

When he wandered back in, she was in the tub, her head resting on her knees all drawn up to her chest, her hair pulled up out of her face. He wondered how long she'd been in there.

"How's that dog hair treating you?" he laughed, crouching down beside the edge.

"Bad," she muttered into her knees. "How do you live like this?"

"In constant pain and nausea? You get used to it. It makes you mean and punchy."

Her head tilted up and she moved over to the side, looking up at him. It was hard to look at him, she realized, without both wanting to run away and stare at him. She was all at once terrified, bitter, and horribly content. What had happened did something. It felt like it made things between them more raw and frayed. They could both see it in each other, both of them afraid to touch it.

Angel forced herself to bury it.

"I read your song."

_ Well, too late to take it back, then,_ he thought.

He sat down on the edge of the tub, swishing his hand around in the bath, then dripped water down on the top of her head, feigning disinterest.

"That so?"

"It's… did you…"

He re-wet his hand, tiny streams of water flowing down her hair.

"Did I what?"

She looked too embarrassed to finish her thought. He flicked droplets in her face.

"Did I write it for you? Is that what you were going to ask me?"

Her jaw tightened, and he laughed.

"My, you think awfully highly of yourself, heh-heh-heh." He could feel his skin crawling as he spoke, having trouble coming up with an excuse to brush it off, drawing a blank. "Let's just say… a little parting gift from me to you. When I'm dead and gone, that's your little souvenir. It's that or the _ 'I Fucked Muds and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt' _ shirt. Your pick."

She clutched the edge of the tub, struggling with what to say in her scrambled brain.

"You should sing it."

He scoffed.

"That's not my bag, love. I could've made an album all by myself, if that were the case."

"Even if it's just a demo… I'd like to have a copy. I like… the sound of your voice."

He squirmed, his chest going tight.

_ Fuck. _

He was used to hero-worship, used to groupies and fake charm and obsessed fans, used to ego-stroking by ladder-climbers that saw him as a rung they could step on to claw their way up. But this was… something else. It was addictive, a hit that made his ego swell. He knew what it was, why she looked at him like that, talked to him like that, felt like that, and he knew it was wrong and dangerous and he would've done well to squelch that shit down fast. Red, blaring alarm bells were going off in his brain when he looked at her too-soft face, demanding that he say something absolutely vile to make her shut up.

But the tremble of self-satisfaction her helpless twisting gave him was overwhelming. She was so readable he almost felt bad for her, and she was naive enough to let her hand show. She was so eager, in her hopelessly restrained way, he could nearly see it oozing out of her. He gave her an inch and she gave back a mile.

He looked up at her from under his hair, his jaw tense. If she was anyone, _ anyone _else, he'd have been telling her to shove that sappy shit, to suck it up and get over whatever the hell she thought she felt.

His fingers rubbed against each other hard in restraint. She was lucky he knew that tomorrow he'd have to stab her in the heart, so he reeled himself in.

Last meal before execution, and all that.

"Fine," he grunted, cupping his hands together and dumping a waterfall on her. "But I'm not gonna like it, and I'm gonna complain the whole time."

She wiped the wet hair out of her face.

"How's that any different than normal?"

"I'm louder."

They looked at each other a little too long and both of them could feel the tension from the day before starting to weigh down. He got up, forcibly brushing it off. The best way to deal with things, he found, was to not deal with them at all.

"You up for another drink?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ," she moaned, her head hanging. "Please no."

The first night Angel and Murdoc spent apart, they both passed out the instant they got back to their own homes, Angel sprawled out on the futon and Murdoc on the couch, completely and utterly drained.

But the second night felt strange.

They both lied awake, feeling very alone. 

Angel stared up at the ceiling of her tiny flat, missing the sound of Murdoc babbling to himself as the night wore on. Everything felt too silent, too still. She'd gotten so used to the noise and fussing and talking that without it, the night felt imposing and suffocatingly, loudly quiet. She sat out on the balcony instead, her head leaned up against the railing and her legs dangling down as she watched the indigo night clouds pass, missing the penthouse already.

Across town, Murdoc laid in bed, curled up on himself, hating that he missed the warmth of lying next to someone. It was back to hideously long nights of pacing and watching the sun creep its way down the crack in the curtain and die out on the floor as he tried to make himself pass out. And that brought with it the horrifying longing for company that dogged his heels relentlessly. He missed Noodle, he missed Russel, hell, he even missed 2D. And he missed Angel.

He chain-smoked half a pack and lamented about what a sad prick he was, then whipped himself into a fury about how no one understood anything about him, then got reduced back to melancholic ruminating in a never-ending cycle. He was like a snake eating its own tail, always wanting something he himself made sure he could never have.

It wasn't worth it to get close, to depend on others when the bottom always inevitably fell out. The toleration by others was always conditional, and he never seemed to be able to meet their expectations. Why would he even bother? It wasn't like he needed anybody, anyway. The only person he'd even been able to depend on was himself, though he knew even that wasn't entirely true.

But he stared out the window, smoking, lamenting his loneliness all the same.

By his unfortunate luck, Lenore came calling in the morning after his restless night of no sleep, ringing his doorbell until he half-staggered, half-tripped down the stairs and ripped the door open.

"Lenore, as much as I _ love _seeing your smiling face, I'd appreciate it if you pissed off," he grunted.

She shoved right past him, inviting herself in.

"You dodged me for a month, I'll be damned if I let you slide any more. So you'd better play gracious host." She glanced up at him. "And take that ridiculous shit out of your ear."

He forgot he was wearing it.

Sometimes, he'd reach up and brush his fingers past the diamond stud and remember it was there and it would make him smirk to himself. He wore that stud on his ear like a hunter would hang a trophy on his wall, like a prize.

_ Who got the last laugh, eh Billy-Boy? _

"Not a chance. It makes me look dignified."

He staggered into the kitchen behind her, collapsing onto the stool. Lenore slid a coffee over to him and he popped the plastic top off immediately.

"Sugar?" he croaked.

"You can add your own," she scoffed.

He grunted. Angel knew he liked seven sugars, she always added it for him. He blinked, shaking his head. Christ, how helpless was he?

He dragged himself over to the counter as Lenore settled herself with her own cup.

"Ricky's crawling up my arse about the contract. He's getting impatient. I need you to get her to sign off."

"I already told you, that's going to be a _ delicate _operation," he muttered.

"You're better off just talking to her."

He mocked her in a high-pitched voice.

"Cute," she muttered.

"Look, she's a fragile thing. Not like you and me. Squeeze her too tight and she'll fall apart. I've got to be slick about it. Only way I'll come out the other side with all my limbs."

"You're letting your sentiment show, Muds."

"I've got no idea what you're talking about."

His phone started ringing, playing "_Send Me an Angel" _on max volume on the tabletop. Lenore stared at him.

"I think I can make a wild guess who that is."

He gave her a hard glare.

"You going to answer?"

"Aren't we in a meeting?" he muttered over the edge of his paper cup, his eyes shooting away from her until the song petered out. "And why are you so interested? You jealous, Lenore? You know you're always my number one—the number one pain in my arse."

"I'm just interested that you seem to actually like someone."

"I don't."

"If you didn't like her, you would've kicked her into the gutter and disappeared."

"I _ like _that she's my get-out-of-jail-free card. And she's not so bad to shag, but that's just an added bonus."

"Oh, don't give me that blasé bollocks. You'd chew your own goddamn leg off if it meant getting away from uncomfortable shit. You'd walk right back into your cell on your own if any of your flings caught feelings."

"She's not a _ fling_, she's not anything. She works for me. It's not my fault she wanted to jump me. Even _you _did," he said, giving her a hard look.

"Get off your high-horse. That was ten years ago and you begged me after you burnt your whole life to the ground."

"And you obliged. I didn't put a gun to your head." He lifted the cup to his lips. "And this doesn't mean any more than that. You don't see me penning you love letters or buying roses. Don't go twisting this into something it's not. It's just business."

"Then tell her off, if it's nothing."

"I'm going to."

"Good."

"Great."

"Do it today."

She'd backed him into a corner.

"The album's not finished."

"I'm sure you have more than enough to struggle through on your own. Your choices are have her sign the contract, or cut her loose. I don't have the patience to watch you chase this chicken around the yard. Shit, or get off the pot."

"Fine," he spat, his whole body tensing. "It's all the same to me. Don't call me when she comes bawling to your doorstep, I've had more than my fair share of tears from that crybaby. Hope you've got tissues. Maybe she'll beg you too."

"Hey, you said she's a great shag."

He made a face and gripped his cup.

"You don't chase girls, I know you well enough."

"First time for everything."

He hesitated, then shook himself. The image of Lenore and Angel all at once thrilled and sickened him.

"Yeah, and I'll be joining the ministry the second you switch sides, because that would be a real miracle." He squirmed. "Do you have anything else to say, or did you just come here to get the latest teen gossip on my prolific sex life?"

"Not so prolific from your own words," she snorted, and his face screwed up.

"Hey, hey, I've got my fucking head on a block. I've got bigger things to worry about than chasing tail right now, alright?"

"Sure, Muds. Anyway, I did have something else. I got a little info about Noodle."

His face went slack and he slammed his hands down on the table.

"What?!"

"Accounting said that she finally deposited the royalty checks cut to her over the last few years. I had them keep writing new ones in case she ever did."

"_And? _"

"Deposited into a Japanese bank account. Whatever's going on with her, something's changed."

He shook his head.

"That's it?"

"Muds, that's more info than you've had in four years. At least you know she's alive."

He grunted, pacing the length of the table.

"Can't you find more?"

"I'll try. I'm not a detective."

He rubbed his fingers together, staring at the wall, his brain short-circuiting. So she just wasn't answering him.

"Anything else?"

"No, that's about it, but I thought you'd like to hear that in person. Muds, this is good news. Something's different. She's reaching out, if not in a roundabout way. Maybe she'll come back."

He shot her an ambivalent look.

"You really think that?"

Lenore let out a long sigh.

"I don't know. You know her better than anyone, probably."

He scoffed.

"Yeah, fat lot of good that does me."

"When's the last time you reached out?"

"Two weeks ago. Don't think there's much point, anymore. She's not coming back. None of them are."

"There's no harm in trying."

"There is if you don't get anything for it. Isn't that the definition of insanity?"

"For all she knows, you've been ignoring her for three years and suddenly the last five months you've been blowing up her phone."

"I told her where I'd been."

"You do tend to lie, Muds."

"Guess I deserve what I'm getting then, eh?"

She thinned her lips into a tight line, drumming her manicured nails along the table.

"You know she might forgive you eventually, if you do keep trying."

His lips curled up over his teeth.

"You got anything else to say?"

"No," she sighed, getting up. "I'll let you know if I hear anything."

He folded his arms tight as she walked to the doorway.

"And Muds…"

"_What?"_ he spat.

"Contract or the truth, one or the other. You can't keep stringing her along."

He said nothing, the clack of her heels fading as she left.

He didn't have the energy to break Angel's heart today. He'd do it tomorrow.

Murdoc slunk back upstairs and shut himself in his bedroom, his brain full of buzzing thoughts that wouldn't let him rest.


	25. Chapter 25

"Oh, Lenore, I didn't expect you."

Angel looked down at the woman in the doorway, and she was suddenly aware that she'd answered the door in her underwear. The only one who ever came was Murdoc, and she was past the point of being embarrassed to be caught with her pants down around him after everything.

Lenore didn't even seem phased and kept her eyes locked on Angel's.

"I was in the neighborhood, I figured I'd drop by. I have a few things I'd like to go over with you."

"Oh, sure." She side-stepped quickly, gesturing inside. "Can I get you something?"

"I'm fine, but thank you. I'm not going to be here too long."

Lenore pulled up a stool at the kitchen island and sat down, glancing around. It was a postage-stamp-sized place, all one room with a tiny bathroom attached. All and all, the size of Lenore's living room. She knew Murdoc tended to keep a second place, "just in case", a place to bring bedmates so they never ended up finding out where he really lived, or someplace to hide from unwanted company.

But this place was noticeably empty.

A futon, a coffee table, a lamp, and that was about it. Aside from the dishes in the drainer, the guitar leaning against the wall, and the trainers by the door, you'd hardly even know that someone lived there. Angel didn't have much of anything.

"How are things?" she said warily as Angel hurried to pull on some clothes. "Is Muds paying you okay?"

"Yeah, he pays me in cash," she said, then shut her mouth.

She didn't know how much Murdoc wanted her to tell Lenore about what he got up to. The woman scoffed, waving her hand.

"I already know he pays you under the table, don't worry. But he pays you enough?"

"I mean, yeah. Seems like whatever he has on him, but it's always fine. More than fine, sometimes."

She glanced around again. So why was everything still so empty? Her eyes rested on the travel bag by the door.

"That's part of what I came here to talk to you about. I'm getting your visa settled and I'd like to get you above-board."

Angel blinked. She didn't remember telling her about that. Murdoc must have said something. But why did he care if she was "above-board"?

Lenore was pulling her laptop out of her bag and Angel sat across from her awkwardly. They hadn't talked much, and she still wasn't sure what her relation to her was—were they colleagues? Or just acquaintances? She wasn't exactly Murdoc's boss, but it sure felt like it.

Lenore was an intimidating woman—she always looked put-together, neatly dressed in designer clothes, with her tight pixie cut and her done nails and her chin up high. Her small stature didn’t affect her imposing figure. She exuded a confidence only Murdoc could match. Maybe that was why she could put up with him.

"I need some information from you, and your passport and ID."

Angel grabbed them up and slid them over the table. She couldn't help but feel like she was in trouble as Lenore glanced from one to the other and her fingers flew over the keys.

"I need your job title."

"Uh… well, you'd probably know that better than me," she said with a half-laugh.

Lenore looked up at her.

"I need it in your words, honey. Technically I'm not even supposed to be doing this."

Angel drummed her fingers on the counter nervously.

"Oh… uh… I'm Murdoc's assistant, I guess? Or maybe… uh… a substitute musician?"

"Good enough. Describe your position."

Easier said than done.

"I… write and perform demo tracks? Is that good enough?"

Lenore couldn't help rolling her eyes. The girl really was clueless.

Her hands itched to show her the contract. She had every right to—if Angel signed it, then Lenore would be representing her. The label tried to give her a different handler in the deal, but Lenore forced them to give her over.

And besides, Angel had every right to know what exactly it was she was doing.

But she found herself frighteningly hesitant. She knew, from years of experience, that Murdoc couldn't be trusted to do the right thing. But… she wanted to give him one last chance to try.

Her fingers ran over the keys, occasionally stopping to ask Angel a question before clacking away again.

"What are your plans, afterward?"

"Is that part of the paperwork?"

"No, just interested."

Angel's insides crawled, her chin resting in her hand. She’d always been okay drifting. It was all she really did—move, make a few friends, do some odd jobs, then pick up and move again. She hadn’t had a real home in years, and everything always felt temporary, anyway. Even this. But for the first time in a long time, she was afraid of when she finally had to close this door behind her.

"I'm not sure. I might move back in with my friend, after. I haven't thought too much about it."

That was because she had no idea what even to do after this.

Once she was done writing, and Murdoc had the demos in-hand for his band whenever they came back, what was there to do? She'd have no reason to stay, and it was probably best for both of them if she moved on. She could go back to playing in bars, or maybe try to scratch together another band. Or she could go back to serving until something came her way. She'd saved up enough from Murdoc to survive for a bit. Maybe she'd split to someplace else far away where she could start over completely. No Billy, no Murdoc, nobody.

"You could stay on," Lenore said.

She glanced up, her mouth hanging open.

"What, like… an understudy?"

"Well, a lyricist, or a contract musician, if you'd want. Or you might be able to get an opportunity of your own if Rick likes you. Do something solo, produce your own album."

Lenore wanted to test the water for herself, see if she could smooth Angel over, set a path.

Angel rubbed her thumb against the line across her palm.

"I… that's nice of you, but I don't think I want to be in the spotlight. Not right now, at least."

Lenore shrugged.

"Give it some thought. It'd be good for your career."

Her career. What little was left of it. What could she do when she couldn't even show her face in public without looking over her shoulder? Without standing in Murdoc's long shadow, where else was there to hide?

She nodded distantly, her eyes sliding down to the table.

Lenore dug in.

"Besides, if you'd get signed, there's a lot we could do for you—you could travel, you'd get paid with an actual check, you'd have representation. Just think about it."

Angel's chest tightened. There was, unfortunately, not much to think about when the other shoe was having a glaring spotlight trained directly on her. She might as well go to Billy's place and knock on the door.

"That's it for now," Lenore said with a sigh, closing her laptop and stuffing it back into her bag. "But call me if you need anything."

Angel's hand tensed against the counter.

"If you don't mind me asking… how've you put up with him this long?"

Lenore turned, guilt nipping at her under Angel's earnest expression. There wasn't any use in telling her to give up. That advice wouldn't stick.

She let out a long breath.

"Look, he's horrible to work with. There's a reason he's got no one left. Most people can't put up with him. Being his friend isn't easy and he'll do anything he can to try your patience, see how far he can shove you before you give up. But he's more bark than bite. Don't take anything he says too seriously. You want my advice? Dig your heels in if you want to stay in the saddle. You've got to be as stubborn as him or he'll barrel right over you."

Lenore's face turned serious as her hand gripped the strap of her bag.

"But listen to me—don't trust him one hundred percent. He's not someone to rely on to come through. Alright?"

Angel nodded.

She bit back all the rest of the advice that bubbled up in her. She'd either last, or she wouldn't. And he'd either loosen his grip or crush her. She knew better than to try and force things one way or the other. All she could do was wait and watch.

"Alright," she said, glancing down at her watch. "I've got to go. Oh!"

Lenore reached into her bag and pulled out a card on a lanyard, handing it over to her.

"There's your key. You can get in the studio that way. You and Muds are in Room Two, you can schedule time ahead, or you can use it if it's not booked. It's all-hours access. Just don't break anything, or I'll get my wrist slapped for letting you in unsupervised. This is a special case. Murdoc's deadline is a little more dire than most, so I'll bend the rules."

Angel clutched the keycard tight.

"Thank you, I'll be careful."

Lenore nodded.

"Alright, kid, I'll see you later. You've got my number."

She let herself out, her hand tense on the doorknob.

_Muds, what did you do?_

The apartment was extremely quiet, now, with Angel still sitting at the counter, staring at the keycard. A safe place, a secret place.

The night before, something else weighed on her, besides the quiet.

She was alone.

That made her lonely, sure, after being handcuffed to Murdoc for a month. But it made her afraid to close her eyes. There was no one around if Billy figured out where she lived. She didn't know how much help Murdoc would have been if he did, but the idea of being alone terrified her. All that stood between her and him was one locked door. She didn't even have a sharp knife, or a bat, or anything. The best she had was her one pan. At least Murdoc had the knife in his boot, though she wasn't sure if that would even make anything better. Murdoc wasn't the quickest or the strongest. But he was somebody—an extra set of eyes and ears she wished she had.

Maybe Fran was right, she thought. She shouldn't live alone. She considered if moving back in with her would be best, though she'd be even closer to Billy. And her only other option was Murdoc, which she dismissed immediately.

She was doing her best to squelch down her feelings. They were friends. Just friends. And asking to move in with him was more than friendly, even if her motive was strictly self-preservation.

_If you have real feelings for me, then you're an even bigger doormat than I thought_.

He was right.

She stared down at the card, wiggling it between her fingers. At least there was one safe place to go.

Murdoc spent nearly a week dodging her, making himself scarce, going to great lengths to be unreachable. If he didn't see her, then he didn't have to deal with it.

He did drive by the flat, one night, and stared up at her lit window, debating whether to go in and get it over with, but after half an hour of anxious hand-wringing, he drove straight to a bar and hung his head over a glass.

They had six songs. Four more to go.

Some of them weren't recorded yet, and the last four were either unwritten or just a jumble of lines and notes. Biting the bullet now meant crashing and burning at the halfway mark.

More than halfway, he realized—three months down, two left, and August was just two days away. If he could just eke out the rest of it, then he could slap it into Rick's hands and deal with the contract last-minute. Then if Angel ditched, he would be free and clear, regardless.

The contract, or the truth—that was Lenore's ultimatum. And he didn't know how much time he had before she made the choice for him.

The contract, and Angel would either run scared, or ditch him for a better deal once she realized how bad the terms were.

The truth, and Angel would either kill him, or just disappear.

He settled on the truth. At least, he thought, there was the slightest fraction of a chance she'd still retain some scrap of misplaced loyalty and stick around. She'd promised she'd stay, and promises still seemed to actually mean something to her. A weakness he could exploit. Maybe he could still drag her over the finish line before he splashed her in the face with the cold water of the contract.

He'd practiced what he would say, pacing his living room.

"I need to talk to you, Ange'... Mm, no, too nice… Listen, I got something to say to you!" He grit his teeth and jabbed a finger at no one. "Look! No one's pinning me down, so you better fuck off! Ugh… no."

His hands curled into claws and he stared holes into the floor.

"I know you think you're in love with me, so you better… just stop it! Satan, what the fuck is wrong with me?!"

He paced faster, flicking the blade of his knife open and shut, his temper flaring the more he obsessed over it.

This wasn't his fault. Why did he have to deal with it? He didn't ask for her to make eyes at him like a fucking schoolgirl. Bloody crybaby. Bloody pushover. She would probably lay out flat in a puddle and let him walk over her if he told her it'd make him love her. She'd probably stab herself in the heart.

And God, all her constantly whingeing about Billy. She'd had it bad, so what? So did he. What did he need that for, all that baggage? Everything about her was so grating.

This was her fault. Why was she so goddamn naive? Why the hell did she worm her way in? And why the fuck did he let her? He gripped the handle hard.

The knife flew across the room and sunk deep into the painting on the wall, straight into the skull of a goat-headed demon. His chest rose and fell with ragged, strained breaths.

"Fuck!" he snarled, kicking the chair over.

The hot flush of rage that built up in him made him shake.

"Goddamnit, goddamnit! It's not my fault! It's her fucking fault, not mine! She should've known better! I told her. She's just a stupid fucking girl, can't fuck without her bleeding heart getting in the goddamn way. Serves her right. Maybe she'll learn. I don't need her. I don't need any of them! Just drag me down."

He scoffed, feeling his pulse quicken in his throat.

"Ruined it all with her bloody feelings. Could've just kept on shagging and doing _fine_, downright peachy, but _no_, can't have that. Can't have anything my way. My way's always wrong!"

And it was Lenore too, the bitch. He'd kicked up more trouble than he was worth and now she was trying to shove him back in the box. She probably wasn't even trying to get the rest of them back. Or maybe she just wanted him out of Gorillaz. 2D was much easier to manage and she'd always been sweet on him.

And Russel and 2D had always hated him. And Noodle… she finally hated him, he guessed.

Traitors, the lot of them.

And Angel was the worst of them all, because she smiled at him while she ruined his life.

He fumbled with the back of the earring and pulled it off, storming over to the trash can and throwing it in.

"Good riddance. What do I need Billy's old broken plaything for, anyway? Little wannabe."

He panted, hands clenched into fists, shallow bursts of breath slowing.

Then, a wash of nauseousness came over him, and he felt very small.

The house felt deafeningly loud in its silence, weighing on him, watching him.

It was his fault. Just like always. Just like everything. One more thing ruined. If he didn't want her to get comfortable, then he shouldn't have opened the door at all. He was just so goddamn lonely. He was the pushover. He saw her feelings all over her face and he still let her tag along just to have another person in the room.

And he knew Lenore was the thin line keeping him from ending up back in the slammer. Without her, he might have never gotten out in the first place.

It was him. It was always him.

_Pathetic_.

He reached his hand into the rubbish, digging around, then tipped the can over with an anxious grunt and sifted through in a panic until he caught the glint of the diamond in the pile of trash. He cleaned the post on his shirt and struggled it back on, sitting on the floor, head on his knees.

He had to get out of the house, go somewhere, do something, or he was going to tear the house to shreds. Again.

And Angel wouldn't be around to clean up the mess.

The studio was empty. After ten, most people went home, not counting the occasional stragglers. So Murdoc holed himself up in the recording suite and ran his nervous fingers over the strings of his flying-v.

It was bloody hot outside, and it was bloody hot inside. Something wrong with the AC, he guessed. But he just grit his teeth and beared it. He needed to do something or he was going to end up scraping himself off the sidewalk the next morning, though that was still a possibility. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, sweat beading at the back of his neck.

Without windows, time stood still inside, and he shut off the world with his headphones on.

All alone.

So the movement he caught out of the corner took a year off his life and he nearly leapt off the chair.

He gripped the neck of the bass hard.

Christ, why did she have to be here?

They gave each other a long look. Angel was stuck to the floor in the doorway, caught between running to him and running away. The door clicked shut behind her.

He was a bizarre mixture of comfort and terror.

Sometimes she looked at him and felt the tension leave her muscles and her chest unclench. She fell into his grin and his snark and that fucked-up laugh of his when conversation came easy, and it seemed like they'd never run short on something to say.

Sometimes he scared her in the best way possible, like hitting the gas too hard on a sharp curve. Like stepping off a high-dive. An adrenaline-driven thrill that forced her heart into her mouth, when he looked at her just the right way.

And sometimes looking at him was like looking over the edge of a cliff—a deeply unsettlingly and instinctual fear of falling.

After being removed for a few days, the spell of pretending wore away, and now when she looked at him, she saw him on his knees, and she heard him telling her to fall on her sword. A kiss and a slap. And she couldn't think of one without the other. Horrible and wonderful. She missed sleeping beside him, and she wanted to be a million miles away. And she couldn't seem to reconcile those feelings now that she'd had far too long on her own to ruminate on them during her sleepless nights.

Murdoc slid off the stool and unplugged himself, the guitar hanging off his shoulder as he came out.

He eyed the bag in her hand and nodded at it.

"Having a sleepover?"

She gripped the strap, eyes flicking away.

"I… well, Lenore gave me a pass," she said, holding it up, "and I…"

Her jaw tensed.

"Billy can't get in here," she finally said. "And I was hoping the studio might be cooler than the flat."

His eyes ran down her bare legs, eyeing her short skirt. Then Murdoc glanced back down at the bag.

"Out of luck there."

Murdoc finally broke his stare and turned to take long strides back to the doorway.

"Well, come or go, whatever you want," he said flippantly, waving his hand.

She clenched her jaw.

_Dig your heels in._

"What bit you in the ass?" she snorted, forcing down the lump in her throat.

She wasn't going to let him throw his weight around.

Murdoc glanced over his shoulder, his smirk thin and strained.

"Oh, you know, just the ever-present threat of being thrown back in the slammer if I don't perform on-demand. Just that."

He swallowed against his dry throat, watching her carefully. Now was as good a time as any, he guessed. Might as well get it over with.

He'd lure her in like a venus flytrap and snap shut before she could even realize what was happening. Quick and painless. Well, quick, at least.

He just had to say it. It would be like ripping off a bandaid, and he'd feel better afterward.

"Well, since you're here…"

He gripped the door jam, watching her set her bag and case down, his eyes raking over legs, her back, the hair that fell over her shoulder as she bent over.

"... We might as well do another take."

"Of what?"

"All of them."

"All of them? What's it matter, they're just demos?"

He shot a hard glance over his shoulder.

"What, you think Ricky's gonna be satisfied with just okay? I want it perfect, no excuses to turn it down. Or do you want to see me thrown back in a cell?"

"You look good in orange," she snorted.

A tangle of anger and flattery snarled in his chest and he didn't know whether to make a pass or yell.

"Oh, glad you can have a little laugh at me."

"Someone has to. Fine," she relented. "You want to play with me?"

He desperately tried to wrangle a smirk, but the corners of his lips pulled up by themselves.

"Yes, I do."

"The whole thing?"

"The whole thing," he muttered, his eyes running over her.

He shook himself, turning away. He was supposed to be peeling her fingers off him, not hoping she'd use them to choke him out again.

She felt the tension in her begin to melt as she played, listening to him, the music drawing her backwards, to when the air between them wasn't so strange.

Murdoc, however, looked like he was only getting more and more high-strung, his boot tapping restlessly against the floor. He looked so serious, so strained.

He wanted to touch her, he wanted to do anything except what he was supposed to. He wanted to hear her sing and moan into his ear. He wanted anything but the creeping feeling of dread that made him shiver whenever he looked up.

She wondered what had happened to him the last few days that turned him so sour. Or maybe it was still the lingering air from their fight. Angel glanced back at him, his neck stiff and his spine straight.

"Murdoc?"

He snapped up, tense.

"You alright?"

"Fine," he snapped. "I'm fine, don't you worry about me."

_Say it now._

He squirmed.

"Run through it again."

Angel gave him a long look. He was gritting his teeth like he was in pain, his eyes averted, hands gripping onto his bass like it was only thing keeping him from falling apart. He looked frayed and raw and thin.

Maybe now was a good time, give him a little ego boost.

She unplugged herself and slipped out the door.

"Hey, we're not done!" he snapped, calling after her.

She dug around in her bag, pulling her notebook out.

"I had something I was working on, I thought you might like it."

He stopped, watching her. Seven out of ten, then. He could probably finish up three on his own if he had to.

"Well, show it to the class, then. I haven't got all night."

"You make your own schedule," she scoffed.

She set the book against the stand and plugged herself back in. Her fingers picked at the strings and she fought the roiling nerves inside her. She glanced up at him, and he was staring at the floor.

"Muds."

He grit his teeth, snapping up.

"I'm going to kill Lennie for ever calling me that in front of you."

"This is a replacement for... the other one."

He cleared his throat.

"A sappy little apology? That's cute. Lay it on me, butter me up. You know I like a good groveling. Get on your knees," he snorted, unable to help himself.

She played him the chords, running through it a few times until he slid into a rhythm with her. Murdoc forced himself to look down at the floor, trying his best to avoid looking up at the girl opposite him, her voice being pumped directly into his ears.

"_This is an obsession, a kind of aggression with himself. It's the way he'll always be. And he loves to rebel, to go against his ten commandments. But for him, that's just being free_."

He was watching her close despite his best efforts to keep his attention on his shoes, her eyes shut and her lips almost brushing the mic as she leaned in.

"_And he always will get his thrills the only way he knows how, well it might make him frown. But he just loves being that dove, roaming where he cares to go. A state of mind which no one knows_."

Her eyes slid over to him, and she was grinning an evil little grin that looked eerily like his own.

"_Over there stands my angry angel, and he's shaking his head in disgrace of me. Over there stands my angry angel, and he's frowning like hell. But I'm not feeling guilty_."

His fingers pressed down hard on the neck of his bass. She was right, he did like it. A frightening amount. She was poking fun at him and he didn't even care.

"_Over and over again, more and more for the pain. To release himself from this shell, time after time_." 

Her goddamn eyes were killing him as they flicked over to him, deep and dark and piercing.

"_You may glare at him for the way he looks, like something drawn up from hell_."

Her body moved, twisting as her voice rose and grew throaty and it echoed in his ears. He could feel the ghost of her fingers around his neck.

"_But that's just his cover from what is under it, all his imagination, his passion for a creation which he has discovered, uncovered a world of amazing sensations. His own little nation_."

_Christ._

"_Over there stands my angry angel, and he's shaking his head in disgrace of me. Over there stands my angry angel, and he's frowning like hell. But I'm not feeling guilty._"

That fucking unbearable feeling was welling up in his chest. God, he wanted her to give him everything. She was so fucking eager and easy and he just wanted to squeeze her until nothing else could come out, until there was nothing left to give. Until she popped. Cover her up, put her in his pocket.

_What she's going to give you is a broken nose if you don't cut this shit out, now._

His nails bit into his palms and when his mouth opened what came out was, "We need three more."

"That's it?" she scoffed. "That's all you've got to say?"

"What did you want? A dissertation? It's fine."

It was more than fine. It made him want to grab her right there and then and wipe that cheeky little grin off her face and give her what she deserved for it.

_This is too much. You have to cut her off. Do it now._

Without a word, Murdoc slid the strap from his neck and walked up to her, pulling the plug out of her Telecaster.

Angel froze, watching him as he pulled the guitar from her shoulders.

"Murdoc?"

He pressed his face into her neck, hands running over the outside of her thighs, moving along the hem of her skirt. It was so gentle that it made Angel prickle with nervousness.

"Murdoc?" she said again, quieter.

"Shut up," he grumbled into her skin, but his words had no bite.

Everything was unbearably tight—his chest, his muscles, his jeans. And it was too goddamn hot. He felt like he was being strangled in his own body. This was horrifying. What was he so goddamn nervous for? He'd done this so many times. Countless times. Sometimes it was easy, sometimes a little harder. But never this hard.

"Hnng… Listen, Ange', I…"

He grit his teeth, his tongue twisting up like a snake in his mouth.

_Just say it!_

Without a word, he wrapped his hands around her arms and leaned her against the wall, pressing his hips into her. His mouth was open against her lips and she could feel his hot breath pool on her face.

"Are you gonna make me show you how much I want it?"

He grasped onto the back of her neck, pulling her to him, burying his fingers in her hair.

"Or do I need to make you mad every time I want to touch you?"

She pulled back, her mouth twisting into a scowl, but it softened when she saw the look on his face. He almost looked hurt.

"No," she said. "That's not it."

"What is it, then?" he snapped. "I didn't beg for your forgiveness? You're still punishing me? Or are you on another celibacy kick?"

_Shut up, Muds_, he thought to himself, tensing up.

"Knock it off. One of us needs to be the adult, here."

"Fuck that," he spat. "What do you want?"

"You," she breathed without thinking.

He let out a shuddering breath, clutching her face in his claws.

"Well, I'm right here."

"Right here, right now?"

"Right here, right now," he growled. "Don't want to wait. Just you and me, here."

_After this. Just one more time. Then I'll do it._

He ran the pad of his thumb over her lip, his nail digging in.

"Come on, Ange'. Let me be good to you," he said in a low voice that turned her into liquid.

Her career, her future, Billy—all of it was rattling around in her brain. But when Murdoc was in her mouth, she found it extremely difficult to care about any of it.

He was very good at making himself an unignorable distraction.

She ran her fingers through his bangs, pushing them out of his face and a little groan left him as her nails scratched light against him. She was so goddamn gentle. He hated it. He craved it.

He knew after this, he wouldn't have her anymore. And that made him even more desperate.

Memories of manhandling her in the bathroom at the Black Cat and his living room and that penthouse he wished they could have stayed in forever all flashed into his brain and all he wanted was to just keep that.

No Lenore. No album. Just him and her with her sweet voice and those bloody full eyes that make him ravenous.

Anxiety roiled in her stomach as she pulled back and looked down at his strained face, his breathing ragged and forced.

"I don't hate you," she said in a small, thin voice.

"I don't hate you either," he breathed. "Now stop talking. I'm gonna shag you till you can't think anymore."

Her lips came down on him, making him grab onto her tighter, bucking his hips into her desperately.

A sound made Angel break away.

“Your phone’s ringing,” she breathed into his mouth.

“Leave it.”

He nudged her back to him, biting down hard on her lip and her eyes slipped closed.

His phone rang again.

"Murdoc," she managed, pulling away. "You should answer that."

He moved down to her neck, dotting her skin with sloppy kisses.

“Ignore it,” he groaned into her.

It rang again, and again, and again.

Angel broke free, pushing him back.

“No one would call that many times unless it was important,” she gasped.

“Fine,” he hissed. "Goddamnit."

He fumbled to pull it out of his pocket in a fit, his hips still jammed into hers as he reached his free hand up her skirt to grab her ass hard, fingers digging in.

"Lennie, I've got my hands full right now, so this better be bloody good, or I swear to—"

He froze, his hand slipping slowly out of her pants as he moved away, the room snapping into cold silence. Angel watched his clenched shoulders ease, his posture melting.

"Uh-huh…"

She stared, his blank face making her nervous. She wanted to ask, but she could tell whatever Lenore was saying, he was listening closely.

"... Do I have to? Can't you… Right… Yeah...”

He hung up without saying goodbye, tossing the phone onto the couch, and he just stared at the table, unmoving. She came up behind him, resituating her clothes.

“Murdoc? Is everything alright?”

When he looked back at her she froze. His face was slack, his eyes unfocused in a hundred-yard stare. His voice was hushed and quiet.

“My Dad died.”

The silence of the room was deafening. It took a long moment for her to understand what he said. She watched him stare at the floor.

“Murdoc, I…”

She searched for words. Was he sad? Happy? She couldn't tell, didn't know how to react.

“I have to make a phone call,” he said suddenly, picking his mobile back up.

“O-okay.”

She walked into the other room to give him space and he shut the door behind her, the phone pressed to his ear.

Angel tried to process what he’d just told her. His dad was horrid, someone Angel wouldn't feel bad about giving a beating to. When Murdoc told her what he'd done to him when he was a child… she wanted to strangle him herself.

She sat on the couch and tried not to look at him, to give him some privacy, but she couldn’t help herself when he started yelling. He was pacing, his hand running through his hair. He was so loud that she could hear him perfectly through the glass.

“He’s _your_ goddamn problem, Hannibal! … I don’t care! … I’ll wire you the money, I’m not—” His lips curled back in a furious sneer. “Don’t you fucking dare, don’t you—!”

He walked back to the door, not looking at her, clearing his throat. His voice was hoarse and thin.

“That was… my brother. I haven’t talked to him in ten years,” he muttered, walking over to the bar. “He was… less than helpful.”

His hands shook as he poured himself a double shot of whiskey, knocking it back fast. Every inch of her was buzzing with nervous energy when he just stood there, his back to her, just breathing. His breaths grew deeper and deeper until he grasped the glass and whipped it across the room.

It shattered into a thousand pieces, a firework of shrapnel against the wall. He trembled, his hand bent into a claw that clenched so hard she could see every bone through his skin. He stared straight ahead, panting through his mouth. Remnants of whiskey dripped down the wall, sliding in heavy droplets that pooled on the floor. 

She wanted to go over to him, but she thought if she touched him now, he'd fly into a frenzy. She sat, unmoving, watching his shoulders shake. His voice trembled.

"After everything… everything he did to me… I should be thrilled, I should be fucking ecstatic that he's dead." He stared at her with wide eyes. "Why don't I feel happy?"

Angel watched him, her quick breaths slowing.

"I… don't think I'd be happy if I found out Billy had died," she said quietly. "As much as I'd like to say I would. I'd still feel… sad, despite everything."

"I'm not fucking sad," he spat. "I'm fucking angry."

The air was electric with rage. He panted, unblinking, unseeing. Angel got to her feet, walking around the table toward him. She got within a foot of him before he flinched back.

"Don't touch me," he snapped.

Her hands hovered.

"Are you going to hit me if I do?"

The question came out on instinct, and she regretted asking when she saw the pained expression on his face.

She didn't think he would.

He shook, refusing to look at her.

"... No."

Gingerly, one finger at a time, her hands came down on his arms. Electricity pulsed through him, every muscle drawn tense and locked as he shivered with rage. She looped her arms around the middle of him, her head resting in the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

She braced herself as his arms shot around her. All the breath in her lungs squeezed out as he clutched onto her and buried his face in her shoulder, his face wet. He was silent, shuddering with sobs he refused to let out.

Her hand threaded into his hair, holding him close.

"It's okay. It'll be okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter is "Angry Angel" by Imogen Heap.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tagged warnings: Discussions of death, parental death, and mentions of physical/mental/sexual abuse.**

She'd done it all before with her Dad and Paola—dealing with death. Beside Murdoc, now, she was split in two: thrown back to the memories of being a child of eighteen barely able to function through the shock of losing her father, and now an adult, holding Murdoc's hand as she walked him through it. And he was rendered childlike. She'd never seen him so unsure, so caught off guard.

He had to go and confirm the body, that's why Lenore had called. The only way to reach him from the outside was to reach his agent, but this was one thing she couldn't do for him.

Angel offered to come in with him, but he gave her a short, snappy "no" and left her in the car as he went into the hospital.

He wasn't gone as long as he expected and she sat up straight when he climbed back in.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. It was the old bastard, for sure. Dead as a doornail."

He jammed the key into the ignition, turning the car over. Angel could see him digging his nails hard into his leg.

"What… what happened?"

He said nothing for a long time, just sitting and gripping his leg and the steering wheel as the car idled, looking like he was about to explode at any second.

"Stroke," he finally muttered under his breath. "At a pub."

His grip grew tighter.

"Not cancer, not the fucking booze, not murder, just a fucking freak thing that did it. Instant, they said. _ Instant _," he hissed again. "No suffering, as if that'd make me feel better."

His hands shook as he turned the engine off, not looking at her, the keys jangling in his hand.

"You'd better drive, I might kill us both. Wouldn't that be ironic?"

His voice was thin and tight, one second away from a complete meltdown. If he was letting her drive, it was really bad. She walked around the other side and he slid into the passenger seat.

He was silent the whole way back to his house, silent all up the walk, and silent up the stairs as Angel watched him from the bottom. Then when he was out of sight, she heard a clattering smash from his room and muffled screams.

She sat at the kitchen table, waiting, looking up crematoriums on her phone.

He came back down after a long while, looking glazed and numb and distant, weakly climbing onto the stool across from her. His eyes were red and swollen, hands trembling. His knuckles were bleeding.

She knew better than to ask if he was okay.

They sat at the kitchen table in heavy silence until Angel leaned over, trying her best to keep her voice low and even as Murdoc stared at the tabletop, momentarily paralyzed after he'd burnt himself out from his tirade.

"Do you… want to have a funeral?"

Murdoc's lips parted, wanting to have an answer, but coming up with none. Angel's hand slid over his, carefully testing if she could touch him. He didn't move an inch. He was absolutely drained. But there were things that needed to be taken care of.

"It's okay if you don't," she encouraged. "You don't have to."

"I don't… I don't know."

Her thumb stroked over the back of his hand, carefully avoiding the scrapes on his knuckles.

"You could… have just the burial? Would Hannibal come to that?"

"I don't know."

He looked up at her for the first time, his eyes puffy and glassy.

"I never thought about what it would actually be like. I never thought I'd have to do this. When I thought about him dropping dead, I thought he'd just… go away."

She chewed her lip, her hand closing over his.

Death, unfortunately, wasn't so clean, even for the people hated the most.

"It's alright."

Murdoc's head lowered.

"Hannibal won't come to anything. I don't know if I _ want _ anything." He shook his head, anger bristling back. "He doesn't _ deserve _ anything."

"Murdoc," she piped up, his head shooting up to look at her.

All she could see was a little brother terrified at the thought of being put in charge.

"You should do whatever you think is best. If Hannibal isn't going to decide, then you should do whatever _ you _ want to. I'll help you. We'll do this your way."

He stared at her, wordless.

"W… would…" He struggled, grimacing, wrestling with his instinct to isolate himself, and the crushing anxiety that was welling up in him. "Would you… come… with me if there was a burial…?"

She wrapped her fingers around his.

"Yeah, yes, I would."

He grit his teeth, looking away, but he didn't let go of her hand.

"I don't want a funeral. I don't want to see him."

"It's okay, you don't have to." She rubbed her other thumb against her finger nervously. "Do you… want me to talk to Hannibal?"

He stared at her, the corners of his lips pulling up. A strangled little laugh shook him. Her face grew hot.

"What?"

He wiped his eye with the edge of his hand, chuckling.

"… Ha-ha… He'd ask '_ who the bloody hell are you?' _ and you'd give him the tongue-lashing of the century."

She snorted.

"That's probably true. I think I'd scare him into coming, if you Niccals boys are anything alike."

It was so mundanely morbid. He'd been through worse, seen worse. This wasn't anything grand or horrible. It wasn't bloody or grim. It wasn't visceral and sickening. And it wasn't cathartic or satisfying. His father had terrorized him for years, a ghost that haunted the back of his mind, a cold breath on the back of his neck. And now he was a pile of ash.

Murdoc wasn't prepared to deal with something so boringly normal as the bureaucracy of death. The concept of cremating his father never even entered his mind. He'd imagined him dying, or killing him. He relished the thought—him suffering, in agonizing pain. To experience even an ounce of what he'd put his sons through. But the reality of him dying silently, out of sight, then having his death thrown on him, wasn't something he'd ever thought of. And the shock of Hannibal refusing to take the responsibility struck him senseless.

He knew he should have done it himself, or at least done _ something _. But two days passed in a numb haze that left him empty and floating.

Angel was the opposite. She holed herself up in the kitchen, making phone calls, occasionally popping her head in to quietly ask him a question before slipping back out.

By the time he snapped back into himself, she'd already had it sorted.

It should have made him angry, her making all the decisions for him. But it relieved him in a way he would never admit to.

She stayed in the house with him, which was equally strange as it was comforting, though he hated to admit it. They'd been shacked up in the hotel together for a month, but this was different. This was his _ house _.

The first night, she said she'd sleep on the couch, not wanting to crowd him, to let him have his time alone. But he'd ended up pacing around the living room nervously clutching a glass as she watched from the sofa with heavy eyelids.

The second night, he didn't even have to ask—not that he could've lowered his pride enough to ask in the first place—she came up to his bedroom and laid out on top of the covers with him, listening to him babble about his father, his brother. Some funny memories, very few happy, but mostly memories of fear and violence and pain. Memories of being locked in his room, or beaten, or ignored. A particularly colorful recollection of his father nearly strangling him at the dinner table, and later being starved as a punishment, shed a little bit of light on the not eating thing. It made her realize that he'd never really moved on, never stopped being the child waiting for a cruel word or the belt.

The third night was spent in silence, with Murdoc staring out his bedroom window, chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes with red eyes while Angel sat beside him wordlessly. They watched the moon climb across the sky, waiting for the dawn.

And then it was the day.

Angel went home in the morning to get herself ready. She'd spent some of her saved money to buy a simple black dress that zipped up the back, and with it, she pulled on her stockings and black heels. They were high for a funeral, she realized. But it was too late, now, as she waited on the futon for him to get there. She rubbed the inside of her wrists with a perfume sample she'd saved in its little vial. She didn't have any nice jewelry or anything to wear, but she thought even if she did, Murdoc wouldn't have wanted that kind of scene.

He waited in the Colonnade, looking nicer than she expected him to, given his cavalier attitude about the whole thing. He wore a black jacket and a black button-up, his shades covering his eyes, swollen and red with darker-than-normal rings underneath. Simple, restrained, unlike him.

But the glint of something caught her eye as she slipped into the passenger seat. He was wearing the diamond stud in his ear.

He didn't want to be there for the actual burial. It didn't matter, he said. No one else was coming. Didn't matter if he got there to see them put him in the ground or not.

"Unless they switcheroo the urns up like a baby in the hospital. What a laugh that would be—I get someone's dear old dad and they get a shriveled old demon in a coffee can, haha."

He'd been joking around all morning, but it felt hollow, forced and performative. For himself, if no one else.

She'd picked out a little plot in Trent, just large enough for an urn. She asked that they do the burial before they got there, and to be left alone. They asked if she wanted a priest present, or someone to read a passage and she politely declined, though she wanted to laugh, imagining the look on Murdoc's face if he had to stand next to a man of the cloth for any length of time.

Then after a while they drove in silence, Murdoc frighteningly quiet, music humming low from the stereo.

"Do you want to get flowers? We can stop somewhere."

He shook his head.

"No. It's already taken care of."

That was unexpected. She couldn't imagine he'd gone out of his way for that. Hannibal, maybe? Had he finally answered?

There was no one else in the parking lot when they pulled in, the tires crunching over gravel in the eerie quiet of the graveyard. Angel had a folded up little map of the site that she'd printed out, struggling to orient herself as she led him down the path.

On a normal day, he would've been bubbling with conversation. He knew this graveyard. He'd fooled around with a girl in a mausoleum there when he was young. But he didn't feel like talking or reminiscing. He was too focused on forcing one foot in front of the other, trying his damnedest not to turn around and leave.

He didn't know why he wanted to do this. Because he felt like he had to? Or just to scrape together some semblance of normalcy out of his broken family? Or maybe he just needed something to do. But now that it was time to actually see that damn grave, he felt like he was pulling himself by the hair to inch his way behind Angel as she led him.

She had asked him what he wanted on the headstone. A thousand things had run through his mind all at once.

_ "Here lies the Devil." _

_ "Burn in Hell." _

_ "Got what he deserved later than he should have." _

He'd stared at the wall for a long time, then turned away, furiously smoking his hundredth cigarette.

"Just his name."

"Do you know when he was born?"

"No."

"Do you know how old he was?"

He snorted, bringing the rim of his glass to his lips.

"Older than me."

His father never told him his age, the year he was born, even his middle name. He knew less about his father than he did about the girl sitting across from him. He could've planned her funeral easier than his dad's. He'd snorted out a laugh at that, nearly flooding his sinuses with a mouthful of whiskey.

She stopped in front of a patch of freshly turned earth and his stomach shot into his mouth. She gave him a small look over her shoulder and stepped back. With shaking legs, he crept forward.

Etched into the small, black stone, read:

_ "Sebastian Alastair Niccals, November 17th, 1935 - July 31st, 2016". _

A shock of white rested alongside the headstone—a bouquet of lilies. A little tag was tied on with a black ribbon at the bottom, with beautifully written Japanese in silver. And underneath in English, it said:

_ "For my Father. May he find peace and reconciliation in the death of his." _

Murdoc stood and stared for a long time, the reality of it finally, slowly sinking in. Angel waited behind him, debating whether to leave him be, or say something, or hold him. But she kept to herself. She wanted to let him do this his way.

When her father died, it was like the world had ended.

She was at work when she got the call from her dad. He'd gone to the doctor for some tests, and when the words left his mouth, she dropped the tray of coffees she was holding, mugs smashing into a puddle at her feet.

Cancer. Soon. Inoperable.

She could barely make out anything else.

And her father was too damn nice about it. It made her angry, sometimes, how unaffected he seemed. She realized, after, that it was for her benefit.

It all happened so fast.

Within a few weeks, he was bedridden, and at the end of two months, he was gone. And she was alone.

Her cousin Diego was the only one who came. Her uncle was dead, her grandparents were dead, and her mother was long gone, unreachable and in the wind somewhere. Diego helped her organize a small funeral, and all of her father's co-workers came to give their condolences. She nodded numbly as they all came up to her in that red plush room and said things she couldn't remember.

And then it was over.

No more mourners. No more anything.

Diego offered for her to come and live with him, in Sheffield with his wife and son. She couldn't. She hadn't seen Diego or his wife or Paola in years, and she couldn't bear to try and cobble a replacement family.

But she couldn't make the payments on the house. She couldn't afford to go to school.

So she became an out-of-towner, drifting from one place to the next, unable to stay in one place or do one thing. Nowhere felt like home. Nothing felt right. And there was no one to tell her what she should do, if she was doing the right thing.

It wasn't until Diego called her offering for her to come and live with Paola, that she needed taking care of, that she saw him again.

But even Paola's house didn't feel like home. Or June's, or Fran's, or Carrie's… or Billy's.

Frighteningly, it wasn't until she came to work for Murdoc that she found herself unable to think about what to jump to next. He was even more chaotic than her, and for once, she wasn't itching to pick up and move again. She was eerily comfortable being in the present.

Even standing next to Murdoc and his dead father.

The air turned thick and humid, grey clouds casting the afternoon in a hazy mist.

She leaned in, her voice low.

"Do you want to stay a little longer?"

He felt distant, a thousand miles away. His head shook numbly, already turning to walk away.

"No… I'm done. Hannibal's not coming."

"Okay."

She followed along behind him, her heels digging into the wet earth, nearly rolling her ankle as she stepped carefully. He snorted, cupping his hand to his mouth as he lit up a cigarette.

"You picked some stupid shoes," he muttered, and a thread of smoke escaped from the corner of his mouth. "...How'd you find out?"

"I did some digging, called around a few offices till I got someone from Trent. Arrest record. He told me if I talked to Sebastian, tell him to drop dead."

He choked, coughing.

"That sounds about right," he laughed, pounding on his chest. "Alastair… That's too good of a name for him."

"I found something else."

His gut wrenched.

"What?"

A small, wry smile crept across her face.

"Sebastian wasn't his real name."

"What?"

"He changed it when he turned eighteen. It was in the public records. His given name was '_ Francis Artemis Niccals _'."

"W—what?!" He coughed out a laugh, buckling over to clutch his knees. "Hahahaha! _ Francis _, sweet Satan. Christ, I lucked out. He could've named me much worse. Least I got Murdoc and not Clarence."

His laughter died out, leaving the air between them extra empty in its absence.

"Ange'."

"Hm?"

"...Thanks."

It was so sincere that it made her freeze.

"Guess your annoyingly stubborn personality can be useful sometimes," he added quickly.

He flicked his butt into the gravel, grinding it out under his boot.

"Come on, I know a pub nearby that probably won't kick us out. Just hike your dress up your thighs a little and maybe they won't look too close at my face."

  
  


He didn't fight her too hard when she said she'd drive back, too loaded on free shots of whiskey from pub patrons excited to hear the news of Sebastian's departure.

She'd never seen so many people happy to have someone die. It seemed to liven Murdoc up, as he participated in a loud, public airing of grievances for all of Sebastian's sins. Like a town hall, but just about Murdoc's shitty dad.

He introduced her to a few local notables, including the first girl he'd ever had sex with—a whispy, thin woman in her fifties wearing a snakeskin skirt and cat-eye glasses who smelled like menthol cigarettes and seemed to like Angel a great deal—and his primary school bully—a thick, clumsy-looking man who didn't seem to like her or Murdoc at all, but was happy enough to vocally hate the dearly departed. Murdoc touted her around as his "_ associate _", with big, knowing winks all around. He split his attention evenly among everyone, but he never left her side, his arm almost glued around her waist. The attachment startled her, but she couldn't say she didn't like it, despite the circumstances.

He threw himself into the car, still cackling about a story she only half-understood with him breaking down into hysterical laughter as he tried to give her context.

She nearly drove off the road when he sat straight up, gesturing wildly out the window.

"Stop, stop!"

Angel stomped on the break, the Colonnade screeching to a sudden halt.

"What?!"

"That's my house."

She leaned down, looking up to where he was pointing. A simple little grey-white house, surrounded by a crumbling brick wall. Unassuming and normal. He stared silently, his top half hanging out the open window.

"Do you want to get out?"

He didn't move.

"Haven't been here in thirty years and it looks the fucking same."

Angel watched him, her hands loose on the wheel.

"We can get out if you want to? Walk around your street, take a look?"

"... No, I think I've had more than enough," he said, sinking back into his seat, the wild spell of humor dying out of him.

"Alright."

He drummed his fingers along his leg, lip curling back over his teeth.

"Hang on, hang on," he mumbled. "There's something I want to do."

  
  


The graveyard was perfectly still. The only sounds in the night were the constant chirp of crickets and Murdoc's loud voice carrying over the headstones. He stumbled over his own feet, weaving between hysterical laughter and spitting, seething rage. Angel followed behind holding his jacket, her feet blistering in her heels on the rough path.

"Can't believe I let you talk me into this. Shouldn't have wasted the money on all of it. Would've been better just to let him rot out in the woods, let the animals have him."

"I didn't tell you that you had to," she said with a sigh.

He made his way in the dimming light from stone to stone until he finally found the spot where they'd been standing earlier.

"Here lies Sebastian Jacob _ Alistair _ Niccals," he drawled. "Or Jacob Sebastian, depending on who asked."

He wavered in front of the fresh grave, staring down at the headstone with wild eyes.

"Fucker," he spat. "Doesn't deserve to be here. Should have just thrown him out in the trash. Ought to dig him up and throw him in the fuckin' river. Bastard."

He unzipped his pants with fumbling hands and pissed right on the wet soil.

Murdoc snorted a laugh, stumbling back. Angel was standing quietly behind him when he glanced over his shoulder, and the manic grin wiped off his face.

"What?" he snapped.

Angel shrugged, still holding onto his jacket as he struggled himself back into his pants.

"Nothing," she said.

"Don't act like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you don't think I'm a prick. Like you can just pretend I'm not doing something shitty just because you don't want to believe I am."

Her expression was unchanging, and that made his blood boil.

"He's dead, I don't think he gives a shit what you do to him, now," she said in an even voice. "You need to process this the way you need to. I'm not going to stop you."

He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, loosening his collar.

"What an incredibly level-headed thing to say," he mocked, swaying as he zipped himself up. His good mood was well gone. "Thought you wouldn't be too happy with someone pissing on their father's grave, with yours in the ground and all."

"Now _ that's _ shitty," she said, staring at him. "And you're saying it so I can storm off angry and you can feel justified in slipping into some kind of self-destructive spiral."

"Oh, no I _ meant _ to hurt you," he slurred.

"Maybe. I'd rather give you the benefit."

His crooked nose scrunched up.

"Why? No one else does. It's because I don't deserve it."

"I'm choosing to."

"You feel _ sorry _ for me," he spat. "You won't feel sorry once you finally wise up and realize how I really am. You're so fucking self-important. You can't save me, you know? You're not going to change me."

She shrugged.

"I don't want to change you, anyway."

"_ Everyone _ wants to change me. I'm sick, I need help, I need a shrink, I need a bullet in the head. Everyone's got their prescription for me."

"What do you think?"

"Oh fucking shove it! Save that therapist bullshit for someone else that gives a rat's arse. You think you're so fucking special that you can walk into my life for a few months and know everything about me? Then you're a fucking moron."

She stared like she was staring right through him, like none of it was even going into her brain. She licked her lips 

"When I—"

"Oh, spare me the pissing contest. You and I are _ nothing _ alike. You had to suffer Billy-Boy for a year. I suffered for _ sixteen. _ I got my fucking _ teeth _ knocked in! He broke my ribs! He got piss-drunk in the same room as me while I got raped, for Christ's sake, and he didn't even notice. And you know what he told me after? He told me I should have been grateful for it. I was nine! He was my fucking father! I didn't have a choice, _ you did! _"

Snot and tears were running down his face and he wiped himself roughly with his shirt sleeve. He stumbled back, his eyes locked on the ground.

"He was my fucking father… And even _ he _ never gave a shit about me. And, what, now that he's dead I'm supposed to _ forgive _ him? Act sad, like it wasn't as bad as I thought and make fucking _ peace _ with the son of a bitch?! He deserves to burn in hell! Rot in the fucking dirt like the insect he was. He doesn't deserve forgiveness. I shouldn't have to, I _ won't. _"

Angel stood still and listened, her face made of stone.

"He just fucking got away with it. All of it. Nobody came to take him away for all the shit he put me through. He fucked me up forever. Fucked my life forever. Never had to pay for any of it. Never felt sorry about it for a second."

"Are you going to let him decide for you forever?"

Murdoc froze, staring up at her.

"What did you just say?"

"Are you going to let him decide your life even now that he's dead?"

He jabbed his finger at her, taking long, shaking steps forward.

"What he did—"

"Was evil. Horrid. You're right, it did fuck you up. It made it so that you'll never live a normal life." Her jaw was tight as she spoke, tears holding fast in her eyes, trembling on the edge of slipping out. "And you're right. We're not the same. What I had to suffer wasn't even a fraction of what happened to you, and it still fucking paralyzes me. So I can't even start to imagine what it's like for you. If I'm in this much pain, you must be in agony all the time. If I was in your shoes… I don't even know if I could have lived with it."

She gripped hard onto his jacket, struggling through her cracking voice.

"I won't pretend I know what it's like. I won't tell you it'll all be fine. But… that's a lot to carry by yourself. All I want to do is give you the space to put it down for a second. And if that makes me an idiot, that's fine. Because I can't accept living in a world where no one would do that for me."

She looked down, nails digging into the fabric.

"I'm your friend, whether either of us likes it or not."

Murdoc couldn't breathe. He was struck dumb. And he had nothing to say, all his thoughts and words choked up in sobs that rattled him.

"Do you want to go?" she asked in a soft voice.

Hot tears poured down his reddened face and he couldn't speak. He could barely breathe. Angel appeared in front of him, slipping her hand into his that was all slick with tears and phlegm.

"Look," she said.

She held his hands out, palms up, running her thumbs over them.

"You don't have to forgive him, for any of it. He's just as horrible now as he ever was. Him being dead doesn't change what happened. But _ you _ have to let go, for _ you _. That's not forgiveness. That's moving on. You're still here. The best way to get revenge is to live despite everything he did to you. Everything you build, you build with your own hands. You control your destiny. Your future. Your life. That belongs to you. And he can't take that from you. Not even the memory of him can."

Shuddering, gasping breaths clenched his chest, his eyes locked onto his hands as she stroked his palms.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" he said in a shaking, reedy voice.

She snorted a gentle laugh, her own face wet with tears.

"I wish I knew."

Angel clenched his hands.

"Come on," she said in a whisper. "Let's go home."

He sprawled out in the passenger seat, leaning his head in his hand against the cool glass of the window. He'd struggled his jacket back on before climbing into the car, refusing Angel's help. She kept her eyes on the road and she was silent. And so was he, all drained of words to say. There was nothing to say.

His fingers slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket, stroking the edge of the letter tucked safely inside. A letter with a ribbon that matched the lilies on the grave.

Lenore must have finally gotten through. And he hated that it was pity that did it. Pity for him that his father was dead—that was what finally made her answer, after every message he'd left, every text.

The day before, Lenore showed up with the letter in her hand. She said her short condolences and let him be.

He'd opened it that morning while drinking a prep glass of whiskey in the bathroom, bent over on the edge of the bathtub. He'd unfolded the letter carefully, his eyes darting over the neat, tight handwriting, and then started to cry his eyes out on the tile floor.

_ "Murdoc, _

_ I had Lenore write this for me. Sending it would have been too slow. _

_ Usually, this envelope should have money. But I'm sure you wouldn't take kindly to that. And I'm sure you wouldn't want me to treat you too softly, either. So I will be brief. _

_ I'm sorry for your loss, and I hope you can find meaning in your father's absence. I think he would be jealous to know you have done better than him. You are not responsible for his failings. Nor can they control you. _

_ Please, do not lose your faith in those who still live. _

_ With love, _

_ Noodle." _

  
  


Angel walked him up to his bedroom where he waved her off and said he wanted to be alone. She nodded and left him be, walking quietly down to the kitchen where she made herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table, staring down into the cup, every muscle in her strained tight.

"Billy-Boy."

Murdoc had called him "Billy-Boy".

She'd never told him his nickname. Only his old friends called him that.

Chills gripped her. She felt like she was going to vomit.

Murdoc knew Billy.

  
  


Barely a day went past with Murdoc calling or texting.

He went three years—three long years—without contact. And then, suddenly, she got a voicemail or a text message from him nearly every day, begging for her to come back. Begging for a response. Begging for forgiveness.

At first, it sickened her.

Then irritated her.

Then made her homesick.

Then it killed her as his voice grew more and more resigned to his loneliness as months and months went by.

Sometimes he was drunk, and blathered on and on about how she made a mistake leaving and that she'd be back someday. Sometimes he'd ramble on and on about "the good days" and recount stories that she'd long forgotten. And sometimes he'd sob and tell her how sorry he was, how he'd kill himself if he thought it would change anything or make it better. Those messages were the hardest to ignore because they almost bordered on sincere regret.

He hadn't heard from the boys either, saying their numbers didn't work for him. It was the same for her—dead silence. And she wanted to tell him that, but she couldn't. She couldn't contact him. Because if she did, he might try to find her. If she did, she might want to come back before she was finished.

The messages she grew to enjoy were just him shooting the shit one-way with her. He'd muse about what she was up to—maybe she'd settled down, or maybe she was playing on her own under some assumed name, or maybe she just retired to the countryside.

He'd talk about things that happened to him. He complained about Lenore a lot. He'd apparently made some bad contract with the label that landed him in prison since she'd last seen him on the island, and that was barely a surprise to her. His panic about that only increased over time as he began to realize they weren't coming back.

He'd gotten an assistant, and every so often he'd laugh about how easy she was to rile up, that he was finally having some fun watching her struggle to keep up with him. She felt bad for the poor girl. Murdoc couldn't go too long without fixating on someone to torture.

But then he started talking about her more, and the way he did changed. She had a name—Ange'. He was irritated with her, then suddenly she was writing music for him.

That gave Noodle pause. He'd never done anything outside of Gorillaz. Not for fifteen years. He said she was "an out", that she could spring him out of the contract if he produced an album with her, and lauded how clever he was for coming up with the idea. But Noodle saw it different—it meant he was starting to take the first wobbling steps towards something new. Whether that was good or bad, she didn't know.

Then even that started to change. One drunk string of messages ran on especially long. It was his birthday.

He'd slept with the girl, apparently, or at least that's what she gathered from the babble he typed out. And usually, that's where it ended for him; the game had been won and there was no interest left. But he was still talking about her, how he missed her and he hated that he did.

_ I miss the sound of her voice _.

That shocked her.

There was never anything new that he grabbed onto. He clung hard to memories and trauma and pain and ghosts. He was still calling her after hundreds of times never reciprocated. But this was new. And he was clinging to this girl like a life raft.

He told her about the girl's hair color that irritated him and how he wished she'd "grow it in proper" because it reminded him of 2D. He told her what a stick in the mud she was. And he told her that he wished she'd just go away. But Noodle knew he could have run away and left her behind at any time. He was choosing to drag her around.

There were many times she wanted to call and give him the reaming he deserved, especially when he was on the precipice of making a bad decision. And she could feel one coming.

But listening was all she could do.

So she sat and listened to Murdoc's desperate voice in her ear.

Then Lenore called.

Lenore knew how it was. She knew Noodle had something she had to do, something that made it so that she couldn't come back. Not now, at least.

Infrequently, she would call and let her know the sales numbers, how much was being deposited into her standing account, any little pieces of news she thought she might want to hear. Always business, with the occasional hope that she was doing okay, and a reminder to call her if she ever needed help.

Lenore never made personal calls.

Not until a few days ago.

Not until Murdoc's father died.

"_ I know you don't want to talk to him, and I know you're… busy. I just felt like you should know. I don't think he'd tell you. Anyway, let me know if you need anything. I'm having them post your monthly check tomorrow. Stay safe _."

And for the first time in three years, Noodle called back.

It wasn't a long conversation, just recanting what she wanted written, placing an order for flowers, and Noodle promising she'd come back once she'd done what she needed to do.

"_ Well, I'll be here whenever you decide to come back. And Noodle… it's good to hear from you. _"

Noodle sat on the patio of a restaurant, pulling her cap down further over her eyes.

She was focused on the man walking into the building across from her, bookended by tall guards whose eyes were scanning in every direction.

She slid her phone into her pocket slowly, and grasped her bag.

Soon.

It was almost time.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged warnings: discussions of sexual/mental/physical abuse.

Angel stared at the kitchen table for a long time, hands clenched around her cup, every muscle in her body pulled tight.

There was no way. The chances of that were unreal.

But there wasn't any other explanation, and slowly, it began to make sense, why Murdoc hated Billy so much.

"_You fucked him, didn't you? _"

That's what Billy had said on the phone.

Her nails dug into the tabletop.

In the grand scheme, she knew it didn't change anything—Murdoc had nothing to do with what happened to her. He couldn't have made anything any different. But at the same time, it felt like her whole world had shifted. Part of her felt betrayed. He didn't lie, but he didn't tell the truth, either.

But he'd also torn his house to shreds. That must've been when he realized herBilly was _his _ Billy, she guessed, from the thoroughness of his handiwork. What Billy had done to her seemed to matter, at least.

Her brain buzzed. She didn't know what to think, how to feel. She just knew her stomach was in knots and she wanted to cry.

She'd never looked Billy up. She'd just never thought to, and after everything, she wanted as little to do with him as possible.

It took some searching, but before long, she was staring down at her phone and there they were in an old band photo, in between some men she didn't recognize—Billy looking younger and rounder in the face, and Murdoc looking a little heavier and his hair a little longer and darker. Murdoc looked more unsettled and pissed than in his older age. But Billy… Christ, he looked the same, just smaller. The same slick smile. The same evil look in his eye. He was always like that, she realized. The sight of the two of them together in one picture squeezed her stomach up into her mouth. It felt wrong. It hurt in a way she couldn't explain.

She itched to walk right up the stairs and confront him, but she kept herself rooted to the spot. This wasn't the time for that, not right now. But she had to talk about it.

The night was warm, and her legs moved on their own to carry her around the block, her phone pressed up against her ear.

"_Oh, that's fucked up, _" Fran muttered.

"I don't know what to do. What should I say? How do I even bring that up?"

"_They don't still see each other, right _?"

"No, Murdoc trashed his place. He fucking hates him, as far as I know."

"_Honey… I don't think he was trying to lie to you. He was probably scared. _"

"... What?"

"_Well, how was he supposed to tell you that? 'Oh, your abusive ex? Yeah we used to be mates.' You'd have cleared off. He was probably afraid to tell you. _"

"Murdoc's never afraid to tell me what he thinks," she mumbled.

"_Well, what would you have done? _"

She grew quiet and stared at the ground.

"_If that were me, I might be too ashamed to admit it. I'd think that you'd hate me for it. _"

"It's not his fault."

"_Yeah, but like… that'd make you feel guilty by association, right? _"

Angel gripped the phone and looked at her feet.

"Thanks, Fran. That… makes me feel a little better."

"_Any time. Remind your man he still owes me a drive in that car of his. _"

"Not my man," she said.

Fran scoffed.

"_Alright, Angie. _"

She stared out the window the whole metro ride home, looking at the ghost reflection of her face in the glass. Everything felt disturbed and dug-up and uncertain. For years, she'd felt like her life was a jigsaw puzzle dumped out on the floor and she'd been left looking for edge pieces to have something to cling to. And when she found Murdoc, she had found a corner piece—a constant. But now it felt like everything was being dumped back into the box, her fragile little edge she'd been building all broken up again. Even her corner piece. And she didn't know if she should pick him out again.

The train rattled along the rail and she leaned her chin on her arm, feeling untethered, tears slipping down onto her skin. It was getting harder and harder to live a transient life, harder and harder to leave things behind. But every time she tried to put down roots, it got fucked up. And this was the closest she'd gotten in a long time, the closest she felt she'd been to getting something right.

She stared out at the blackness.

Maybe it didn't have to be fucked up, this time.

"_I'd think you'd hate me for it. _"

She remembered the look on Murdoc's face, opening the trunk to show her what he'd done to Billy's stuff—a mix of anticipation, fear, and pride. Looking for her approval. Looking, maybe, to make up for something.

She thought of the diamond stud in his ear. She'd seen Billy wear those earrings a handful of times, and now seeing Murdoc with one of them… she realized she never thought of Billy when she saw him wear it. She only thought of what he'd done for her. It was like the second he stole them out of Billy's place, they stopped being his. It became something else. She got used to it, and its attachment to its old owner slipped away. Maybe she could get used to this, too.

Fran was right. She couldn't let Billy decide her life forever. If she kept running from everything that had ever been touched by him, she'd never stop running. There would always be something as long as she was looking for it.

Her tears dried up on her cheeks and made her eyes itch. Maybe that corner piece was worth hanging onto.

  
  


He was in the studio earlier than she expected the day after, looking fresher and more chipper than she thought he would. She swallowed the pang of nerves that shot through her when she saw him, and let a grin creep onto her face.

"_Gooood _morning, love. Don't you look radiant."

"You seem happy," she snorted.

"Why wouldn't I be? I just put the worst man in the world six feet underground. I'm in bliss. The sky's a little bluer, the grass a little greener."

He was wearing his lucky shirt, and she guessed it wasn't intended for him to get lucky. It was more likely for him to just make it to the end of the day. She could tell just beneath the surface, he was tense.

"Hey, you _ should _ be happy. We're almost done. Just two left," she said.

"Just two left," he repeated, sounding less enthused than she expected.

"That ought to make Lenore happy, too. You're going to make your date."

"Looks like it," he muttered.

"You'll owe me after all this."

He turned to look at her, scoffing.

"I took you to New York and put you up in your flat for free. That's not enough?"

"That was work. You owe me a vacation." She looked down at her fingers wrapped around the neck of the guitar. "You never did get to go to Ibiza…"

He stared down at her, his stomach flipping.

"Right. Well, after I get the shackle off my leg, maybe we'll fix that."

She gave him a mild little smile that made his chest wrench tight. _ She's insufferable _.

"Still haven't thought of what you're going to do after?" he asked, turning away.

"I'm not sure. Lenore offered me a job."

He froze stiff.

"What was that?"

"She offered for me to stay on, to underwrite, like I'm doing for you. I don't know… I'm thinking about it."

He was staring at her.

"You'd stay?"

"Maybe. I don't know if I'm ready to pick up and leave just yet. Maybe I could go back to being your assistant, if you ask real nice."

She expected a joke from that, but none came. He looked intense and serious.

Words roiled in her stomach that she fought back, her mind buzzing. She wanted to talk about it. She was full to burst, trying her best to keep her mouth shut and her resistance was quickly slipping. Murdoc blinked, snorting.

"What're you looking at me like that for?"

She couldn't help it, she had to say something.

"Murdoc, I—"

Both of their heads snapped up as the door burst open and Lenore came running in.

"Rick's on his way."

"What?"

She tossed her bag onto the couch.

"He's coming down here now."

Murdoc's whole body was pulsing with cold sweats and he ran up to her.

"How long?"

"He'll be here in fifteen minutes. Guess he didn't want to give you time to slip away."

"What the bloody hell does he want?"

"He wants to hear what you've got."

His eyes shot over to Angel and he didn't even have to say anything. She grabbed up his case and dove into the other room, getting them both in tune.

He leaned down to Lenore as she pulled herself up to the mixing board.

"It's not time yet, the deadline's not up."

Lenore glanced up at him, her voice low.

"I told you that you didn't have much time. It's not about what you want, anymore."

His eyes were wide and unblinking.

"You can't use my dead dad as an excuse to get out of this?"

"Maybe for you, not for her."

He was pale as a ghost.

"... I'm not ready."

Her lips tightened into a thin line.

"Sorry, Muds. Should've moved faster."

He grit his teeth.

"I know that!" he snapped.

He glanced up and Angel was looking at him, his voice so loud that she could hear it from behind the glass. He clenched his jaw and sunk down onto the stool next to Lenore, rubbing his chin.

Lenore held a long look at him before her eyes shot back to Angel getting herself resituated.

"I was just trying to help you, Muds," she muttered. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't relish in ruining your life."

"I know," he grumbled. "But you know trying to help me is a fool's errand."

He nudged her out of the way, getting them set up on the computer.

"You talked to Noodle?" he asked under his breath.

"Yeah. She said she had something to take care of, but it sounded like she might come back, afterward."

"How long have you been talking to her? This whole time and you just didn't tell me?"

"Same as you, Muds. I've been leaving messages. That was the first one she's returned in three years."

"The others?"

"Still nothing. But if she comes back…"

"The rest might, too," he finished.

He was quivering as he glanced up at Angel. He'd have the shackle off his leg and he might even be able to slip right back into the band. It couldn't have been more perfect.

So he couldn't understand why he felt so terrible.

They all felt the tension in the room spike when Rick strolled in with his squirrely-looking assistant. Murdoc and Angel watched him shake Lenore's hand from behind the glass.

"Bastard, he knows I'm busy."

"Murdoc, he does have a right to listen to what we're doing."

"He could bloody well listen to the demo tapes, couldn't he, then? He's doing this to irritate me."

Angel watched him from the corner of her eye.

"You alright?"

"Fine," he snapped.

She struggled to find something to say.

"Hey, at least we know what the hell we're doing, this time."

His jaw was tight and he didn't say anything.

They played through everything, beginning to end, both of them trying to stay focused on the words and the music and not the people silently staring in at them. Angel kept her eyes trained on Murdoc and Murdoc was looking straight ahead, unseeing. He could feel her worried eyes on him, but her voice didn't shake.

"_Somebody's screaming, looking at the ceiling. Everything's so funny, I don't have any money. People don't even know me, but they know how to show me. Why can't you be nicer to me? _"

Those eight songs felt like they took a lifetime. And the quiet that followed was even worse.

Murdoc and Angel sat down together on the couch, so close they were almost touching, both of them shrinking under Rick's glare from across the coffee table. She could feel Murdoc shaking. He moved to light a cigarette and Rick grunted.

"Not unless you want to pay for the cleaning, Niccals."

He gave Rick a long look like he was calculating the reward of the risk to test him, then tucked his cigarette behind his ear.

Rick's eyes shifted onto her and she was ramrod straight.

"Well, Angela, can't say I don't like what I'm hearing. I've got notes, believe me, and I'll have Lenore handle that with you later. But you're not too bad. Your writing's decent, the sound is good. I have to say that I was more worried coming in than I am leaving."

The relief of his words was short-lived.

His eyes narrowed on Murdoc.

"But you… I told you the last time, I don't want your voice on it. Croon all you like on karaoke night down at the pub, but not in here. I don't need to remind you that none of your other bands sold. _ None of them_. It's not _you _that sells. You can play your bass just fine, but that's it. If you think you run the show around here, you don't. Not anymore. You're back on bottom-rung without the other three. You're just a guitar player, at best."

Murdoc was trembling with restraint, his eyes locked in the table. He could feel Angel tense up beside him.

"His voice is fine," she suddenly insisted in a loud tone that nearly made Murdoc clap his hands over his face.

_ For god sakes, Ange', shut up! _

She was trembling with rage and she couldn't make herself stop.

"And I don't know what you mean that he couldn't sell. I hear plenty of talentless hacks with their shitty, auto-tuned vocals, and I'm sure some of them are yours. And I'm telling you they're not good. His voice is real, at least."

Rick gave her a long look.

"You think you know better than me?"

"I know I've played more shows than you," she said without meaning to. It was like something else had control of her mouth, she just couldn't stop, her body hot and vibrating with anger. "I know that people want more than the cookie-cutter shit pumped into their ears year after year. I know if I heard him at a show, I'd be coming back. I'd buy his album in a heartbeat, chain-smoker voice and all. Just cause you don't like it doesn't make it bad. Just makes me question your taste."

Murdoc had to gather his jaw up from the floor and Lenore was stone-stiff.

His laugh almost made Angel piss her pants in shock.

"Looks like you got a new agent, Niccals. She's got bigger balls than you." He focused on her. "You can argue, kid, that's for sure. You think you know best? Fine, I'll let you take a chance on it. But it'll be on your head if it tanks. I'll cut you off in a second, don't think I won't."

She stiffened her jaw. Why her?

"I'd take that bet," she said, unwilling to back down.

Rick drummed his fingers along the table, then got to his feet.

"Alright, I've got more to deal with today than you two. You still owe me two more tracks, no excuses," he said, directing that last part at Murdoc specifically. He nodded at Angel. "You need to sign your contract, and I'll be back to make sure I get the final mix in my hand on October 1st."

Angel blinked.

"Contract?"

Murdoc's hand slapped down over her mouth and he tugged her in close to his side.

"No worries, Ricky, it'll be all sorted. Don't sweat it. All good here, mate."

Rick scoffed and gathered himself up, leaving Lenore, Angel, and Murdoc behind as they all gave a sigh of relief. She swatted him away.

"What contract?"

Murdoc's eyes shot to Lenore and back. She offered no help, shutting her laptop. He cleared his throat.

"Just some legal shit, you know how it is—you won't sell out our music to another label, your payment, blah blah blah. Bean-counter shit. Don't worry about it, not important."

Lenore's lips tightened into a thin line. _ Coward_, she thought to herself.

Angel gave him a short little nod.

"Well, send it to me and I'll look over it."

He waved at her from over his shoulder.

"Sure, sure. I'll get to it."

Angel drummed her fingers against the tabletop, then got to her feet, still shaking with nerves.

"Murdoc, let's go out for a smoke," she said suddenly.

He watched her walk to the door and let herself out. Lenore scoffed at his pleading face 

"You're on your own."

"Listen," he said, coming up alongside her outside the studio front door. "If this is about what Ricky said—"

She held her hand out expectantly and he pulled the cigarette from behind his ear. She leaned in and he lit it for her. Her silence made him jumpy and nervous.

"... I—"

"It's not Rick," she said, cutting him off. "I know about you and Billy."

"... What?"

She took a long drag.

"You called him Billy-Boy yesterday. Only his old friends call him that. No one does, anymore. You slipped up."

His heart was banging in his chest.

She kicked at the ground, hands stuffed into her pockets. Murdoc said nothing, not looking at her as he shakily lit his own cig. Hers was burning between her fingers.

"I didn't want to bring it up, but… I couldn't help it. I was wondering what I was going to say to you. Thinking about kicking your ass," she said with a half-laugh. "But… I'm not. It's… it's alright."

"... That's it?" He shook his head, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. "That's all you've got to say?"

"Murdoc, you should be _ happy _ I'm not kicking your ass."

"I'm not," he grumbled. "It's not alright. You should be livid. It's irritating, how level you are. Go fucking mad, for once."

She flicked ashes out onto the sidewalk, looking down.

"Was he always like this?"

He cleared his throat, leaning up against the wall.

"Always a sleazy, greasy snake? Yeah. He's a good liar. I'd say better than me, but I'd be lying, heh-heh." That didn't make her laugh. "You're far from the first girl he took for a ride. He's slick. Smiles real big and then stabs you in the back. He gets on really well with girls like you who see more good in people than there is."

Angel nodded, glancing away.

"Yeah… well, that seems to keep getting me real deep in the shit, doesn't it?"

"Just stop caring," he jabbed, chuckling.

"Wish I could."

He grunted.

"If you didn't care, then you'd be like him. Or me."

"You're not the same."

"Aren't we? I have to say I'm much better looking, though."

"You're not the same," she said louder, looking over at him. "Not at all."

_ More the same than you'd like to admit_, he thought to himself.

Angel stared at the ground.

"Murdoc… was I an idiot not to see it? To not know what he was?"

"You already asked me that."

"That was before you knew it was the same Billy. I just… I never should have let him touch me again, after the first time."

"I told you, shit like that isn't your fault. You need to stop whipping yourself over it. Leave that to me and my riding crop," he snorted.

"I know, but I can't help but think—"

He held up two fingers, staring straight ahead.

"Twice. It happened twice to me. The table lady when I was nine, and a man when I was twenty. Met him at a bar. He drugged me and did it in the alley." His hand absently went to his cheek. "I had that scrape on my face for two weeks. Fucker chipped my tooth, too."

He tapped his long nail against his incisor that was cut flat at an angle, then let out a sigh.

"And you know I've been bloodied up more times than I can count. If anyone gets being used and abused, it's me. If it can happen to me, it can happen to anybody. And it's not their fault. Not yours, either."

The look he gave her was sharp.

"There's a reason I don't let anyone step on me anymore. I've tasted dirt more times than I'd like to ever again. So no, I don't think you're an idiot. I think you weren't used to being ground under someone's boot. There was no reason for you to think you would be."

Her stomach was in knots. There was still so much she didn't know about him, and so much of it was awful. It made her wonder if anything good ever happened to him at all.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not suffering. I do things my way, now, on my terms. I've had thirty years to process. That's longer than you've even been alive. So don't give me that pitying face. I didn't bring it up to cry over it, I'm trying to make a point."

"I know, I just… I'm sorry."

He snorted and a shot of smoke blew from the corner of his mouth. _ Always the empathizer_.

"Don't let that color your opinion of me. I don't need you slipping on kid gloves out of some misplaced guilt about shit that happened decades ago. But… I get how it is, you know? People do horrible shit and it's not your fault."

He turned away. He'd never told anyone that. She had a way of wringing shit out of him without even asking him to. He wanted to tell her things. It felt safe to, and he didn't understand why. She felt safe in general. He wasn't used to that. It unnerved him. He was getting weaker-willed in his older age, he thought to himself.

He cleared his throat.

"Anyway, Billy's always been a slippery little bastard. Half the time, I felt like I was the only one who knew he was fucked. Everyone thought I was jealous. Mostly he just pissed me off. I might be crazy, but he's a fucking sociopath. That kid even gave _ me _ the creeps. But he knew how to hide it when he needed to. Sorry you had to experience it up close and personal. I never had the misfortune. Though if I'd have tried, he probably would've broken my teeth. Didn't exactly like the fact that I buggered men," he chucked. "He tricked a lot of people with that stupid fucking grin. Lucky for me, I don't trust anyone to begin with. I just happened to be right, that time."

"That's why you said he'll never stop?"

"He doesn't like being told "no", but I'm sure you know that. Honestly, you probably know him better than me. He and I didn't exactly get on, if you couldn't tell from the work-over I gave his flat. He deserved it. He deserved worse. Especially for what he did to you."

She looked over at him and he turned away fast.

"You know… cause you're such a delicate flower. Disgustingly sentimental. That's like kicking a puppy."

She flicked her ashes out.

"I'm… kind of glad that you know." She took a long drag. "Fran sympathizes, but I know that you actually understand what he's like."

"It's like AA, right? But with shitty ex-bandmates."

That did make her laugh.

"… Why didn't you tell me before?"

Smoke puffed out his nose.

"Why didn't you tell me that you met me at the party?"

_ Embarrassment. _

They both took drags of their cigs in silence and stared at the ground, the air heavy between them.

"Hey," she piped up, nudging him. "Just two to go."

He nodded, shaking himself.

"Two to go. Didn't think you had the balls to stick up to old Ricky, but you really went to bat for old Muds," he cackled. "You really can be a bitch when you want to be."

"I don't like people ragging on my friends," she said with a little smile, grinding out her butt on the wall.

"You can still be friends with Billy's old mate?"

"I told you, we're friends whether we like it or hate it."

A hot flush ran through his body from head to toe as she looked at him, giving him that warm little smile she did, with those soft eyes he saw too often pointed in his direction. He wanted to kiss her, but reigned himself in hard, standing stiff and still. He swallowed against his dry throat.

She forgave him so easily. Too easily. She wasn't an idiot, but she must have had no survival instinct at all. If the roles were reversed, he would've cut her off as soon as he found out. He would've put miles between them. The magnitude of how much faith she put in him weighed down and crushed him.

She stood beside him when he antagonized her, fought with her, lied to her, used her, got her lip busted and she still stood up for him like he deserved it. She stood beside his father's grave, for Christ's sake.

It was killing him.

Guilt wasn't something he felt often, and very rarely did it sway him to do anything about it. Usually, he could drink it or snort it away and with time it faded out. Or at least he learned to ignore it. This anchor around his neck only felt heavier the longer he dragged it around, the longer he dragged her behind him.

He wasn't any better than Billy.

She turned and flicked her butt into the trash, scanning her key card at the door.

"Hey, Ange'."

She glanced back and he twisted around inside.

"I don't hate you," he blurted out.

She gave him a soft grin.

"I don't hate you either, Muds."

  
  


He chain-smoked half a pack when he got home, pacing, thinking, thinking too much. He sat on the couch, his leg bouncing uncontrollably.

Everything was eating at him, nagging, deafening, unignorable. Guilt weighed on him and he thought he might puke. He had to do something, _ something _, to make it stop.

He grabbed up his phone, shakily dialing.

"... Lennie, can you meet me tonight?"

He was already at the hotel bar when she got there. He looked nice, in his dark grey blazer and purple collared shirt unbuttoned down to his chest to let his gold chain peek out. Even bothered to put on dress shoes, the heels noticeably absent as it made him a whole inch and a half shorter. That worried her. He only looked nice if he was about to ask for something completely ridiculous, if he was about to go off the rails, or if he was about to try and fuck her again. Sometimes all three. She dreaded finding out which one it was.

“What the fuck is this, Muds?” Lenore snapped, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she took long steps towards him. “I have a life outside of you, you know that?”

“I thought I was your life,” he said, clapping a hand on his chest.

“You seem to think that of everyone.”

His fingers fidgeted. Her eyes snapped down to his hands. A nervous tick. He only did that when he was anxious, and he was doing it a lot. She jerked her head to the bar.

“Get a drink, settle down.”

“Already did.”

“What a surprise,” she muttered, following him back to his table. “Get another, the first didn’t work.”

She tossed her bag on the empty chair beside her, sighing as she slunk down.

“You look tired, Lennie.”

“Did you come here to just shoot the shit?”

“No,” he snapped, scoffing. “Of course not.”

She leaned across the table.

“Then why am I here at ten at night and not in my silk pajamas at home with a bottle of Grigio?”

“God, your life is horrible,” he sneered. “I think your vibrator could use a night off.”

“Cute!” she laughed. “Can you spit it out now so I can get back to my sad life? There’s a pint of non-dairy butter pecan in the freezer at home waiting for me.”

“I have some… business-related questions.”

“That’s funny, because you never, ever do. You just do shit and expect me to clean it up for you.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“Ah, no, that’s your assistant’s job. If you even ever used her for that, that was never made clear to me. Besides, you don’t physically need to see me to ask me a question. You’ve got something on your mind that you want to talk about. And if it’s bad enough that you’re coming to me for advice, I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

He looked away, tracing his fingers around the rim of his empty glass. She clicked her tongue, turning her attention to the menu instead of his worryingly pensive look. When he thought too hard, it didn’t usually pan out well.

“Would you actually get something to eat for once? I’m not putting every drink you get on the company card. And no, it doesn’t count as a meal just because it’s got carbs and sugar, you’ve already tried to pull that argument, and it didn’t hold up. I had to pay for that binge myself.”

“I want you to find out some stuff for me,” he said, his voice low and serious.

She set the menu down.

“What kind of stuff?”

“It's about Billy.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Billy as in... Billy-Boy? Your old bandmate? Why? Is he trying to cut in on old sales? Because you haven’t even gotten revenue from the Burning Sensations since—”  
“It’s not about the old band.”

She blinked, her mouth falling open in confusion.

“Okay… Then what did he do to you to piss you off?”

“Didn’t do anything to me.”

“Okayyyy, then what did he do to Noodle, or Stu, or Russel?”

“Nothing. Also, don’t think I don’t notice that you call him ‘Stu’ and not ‘2D’. I’m still a little sore about that.”

“Get over it. If it’s not about you or them, then you’ve lost me.”

The server came by and Lenore leaned back, rubbing her temple.

“Another, if you would,” he muttered, tapping his finger against the glass.

“A ginger ale, please.”

“Drinking light, you knocked-up?” he prodded. “Maybe ‘D _ is _ back and he just hasn’t left your house, yet. You do look a little like Cracker if you kind of squint. Just missing the slutty red lipstick.”

She licked her teeth, staring at him as the server quietly excused himself and slipped away quickly.

“That’s a pretty weak attempt at embarrassment for you, Muds. That’s the best you got? You didn’t even shout or use a funny voice.”

“I’m... off my game a little,” he muttered, tapping his knuckles against the table.

She leaned back, rolled her eyes.

“This is about the girl, isn’t it?”

“She does have a name, you know.”

Lenore scoffed.

“Oh, you’re getting personal all of a sudden? When have you ever cared about someone you’re fucking?”

His eyes slid up to her from under his hair, his teeth snapping against his thumbnail.

“... I usually care more than I’d like to. Easier for everyone to act like I don’t.”

She sighed.

“Yeah, I know. So what is it? Billy bump into her at a bar or something? Step on your toes?”

He braced himself.

“She… used to be in a band with him.”

“... You’re fucking kidding me. Can you—" She lowered her voice. "Can you fuck someone outside your immediate circle, please?”

She glanced up, mumbling a thank you to the server who slid a chilled glass in front of her. Murdoc was slung back in his chair, looking sheepish, his gaze lingering anywhere but on her.

“I didn’t know they’d been together, before we uh… got involved.”

“That’s because you never ask any questions and you’re reckless. We never had a problem with your old bandmates before, god-fucking-bless. Why root it up now?”

“She left the band and he took all her material. Royalties, sales, everything. Stole her work and published it under his name.”

“Well… that sucks, but I’m guessing she didn’t have a contract, or else you’d be telling me to call my lawyer, not blubbering at me in a hotel bar. And if she didn’t have a contract, there’s not much to do about it.”

“I want you to get the rights. All her old music, and the new stuff he published, if you can.”

She scoffed.

“That’s… that would be extremely difficult and a waste of time. The money she'd get wouldn’t even be worth the litigation.”

“Can you do it?” he snapped, cutting her off.

Lenore sucked in a long breath, turning away.

“Maybe, I don’t know. I’d have to pull some strings and see.”

“Then pull them. Pull mine. Do whatever you have to.”

She leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

“Does she have something on you? Why go through the effort?”

Murdoc shook his head, taking a small sip.

“She doesn’t even know I’m doing this. And she’s not _going _to,” he added with a hard look.

“Like I’d involve myself in whatever weird little power play this is. I’ll look into it, but I’ve got no dog in this fight as long as you don’t go stirring up trouble with him.”

A long silence stoked her curiosity. He didn’t seem right, but not in the right way of not being right. When he was off, he was _really _off—screaming, carrying on, making an ass of himself, or making fun of everyone else. He wasn’t one to suffer quietly if someone was looking right at him. Something in her brain snapped.

“_You _did something. You feel guilty. What did you do?”

“Thought you didn’t care,” he muttered.

“I do if it comes back on you. Because then I’ll eventually have to deal with it, like everything else. You have any idea how hard it was to spin you letting your guitarist burn to death? The covering up that took?”

His head shot up, his expression turning angry.

“Hey, she wanted time alone, I gave it to her. She and I made a deal and I held up my end. Not my fault if not everyone was in the loop. Even a moron could’ve seen she wanted to disappear. That makes the other two of them complete imbeciles.”

“What did you do?” she insisted, emphasizing each word.

He leaned back, his temper settling.

“It doesn’t matter. Just do it… please,” he added, so quietly that it was almost inaudible.

She blinked, sitting back. He never said please, not for anything. He demanded, or whined. But “please” wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. She’d heard that word slip out of him three times before: when he was in withdrawal in 2001 and jonesing, when he showed up at her door in 2008 in tears and begging for distraction sex after he burned his studio down, and when he came crawling back after prison earlier that year asking her to find the other three.

Lenore nodded slowly.

“Okay, yeah. I’ll see what I can do. But you stay out of unnecessary trouble. If you want me to do this, you might fuck it up if you play around, got it?”

He got up quickly, sliding his glass across the table.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Lennie. G’night.”

“Muds,” she called as he stepped away. “Where are you going?"

"You gave me a choice—the truth or drop her. I'm going to go do one of the two."

"Which one?"

He turned around, waving over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angel and Murdoc's song in this Chapter is "Why Can't You Be Nicer to Me?" by the White Stripes.


	28. Chapter 28

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" she called over the incessant knocking. "Can't you ever call first?"

Angel pulled the door open and Murdoc was leaning in the doorway, his clothes messed and his eyes wide.

“Muds, it’s almost one.”

"Ange', I need to talk to you, _ right now _."

She blinked.

"I… uh… s-sure, okay."

He pushed right past her and was already wrestling his jacket off by the time she shut the door. He was dressed nice but he looked… bad, pacing the short length of her apartment in laps that made her dizzy. His collared shirt was unbuttoned to the chest, his pendant glinting in the light, and he looked shiny with sweat.

"Murdoc?"

He glanced around nervously.

"Real quiet in here. Don't you have, like, a turntable or a stereo or something? Something? Anything?"

He needed filler sound. The silence was deafening, and it made all the words he needed to say cram up in his throat.

“This place is so fuckin’ empty. What do you do with the money I pay you? You should spring for a hi-fi stereo or, or like… at least a chair or something, fill out the bloody place a little. I know it’s a bachelor den, but I mean, really. Have some decorative sense, if you’re gonna squat here.” 

"Murdoc, what the hell's wrong with you?"

She pulled his eyelids open wide, glancing from one to the other, and he was pliant in her hands. His skin was burning hot.

“Jesus Christ, your pupils are fucking huge…”

“Ah, that’d be the speed/ex combo. I'm finally hitting the sweet spot between unbearable sentimentality and crippling adrenaline-fueled paranoia. Spent the worst part in the car before I came in."

Her mouth hung open.

“What the _ fuck_, Muds? What's going on?”

He peeled her hands off him, eyes wide and breaths coming in tight bursts. His fingers pressed into her cheeks, his eyes flicking from one of hers to the other.

“I had to.”

“You _ had _ to?”

“I had to tell you something. Speed makes me talk, and the ex makes it okay to... feel... things. It’s a great little cocktail till you start coming down, and I don't have all that much time till it starts thinning out.” He stared at her, his eyes darting all over her face. It made her nervous. “I didn’t think I’d be able to talk to you unless I was out of my mind.”

“You're starting to scare me. What is it?”

His eyes shot over to the futon and he sat quickly, patting the spot beside him. She moved to sit and he immediately sprang back up to his feet, pacing in a circle and running his hand through his hair, teeth gritting.

Angel stared at him, then snatched up her phone. The sound of quiet music playing from the speaker made his jaw loosen and he slowed to a stop. She set her phone down on the table.

"Better?"

He rubbed his face and felt the grip of silence leave him.

"Loads."

"Come on, say what you got all fucked up to say."

He was nearly crawling into her lap when he sat back down, grasping her by the shoulders, his skin slick with sweat. His voice was urgent and distressed, as if he was trying to get everything out as fast as he could before the spell of the drugs wore off.

“Ange', I… Hhnngg... Satan, why's this so fuckin' hard?”

His jaw clenched hard and he made a pained sound before words burst out of him like a bomb.

“I like you. A lot. A frightening amount. More than I’m comfortable with.”

Her mouth hung open.

It was like he'd hit her with a brick—Angel's mind went completely blank as a hot wash of anxiety, embarrassment, and excitement drowned her. He shook his head.

"I–I _ tolerate _ people, and there's a very exclusive club of people I actually _ like_. And you've got a goddamn VIP pass. And that scares the fucking shit out of me. I _ hate _ it."

She blinked, heart thudding painfully in her chest.

"M–Mur—"

His nails dug into her leg as he leaned in.

"Don't, don't talk. I need to say this now, right now," he snapped. "I know how you feel about me, it's practically painted on your goddamn face. You're not subtle. You're too fucking nice to be subtle."

She was stuttering.

"I–I don't... I don't know what you—"

"Oh, _please_. Don't insult me by trying to cover it up. Even Lennie can see it. I _know_ how you feel. I like you, Ange'. But–but I need you to understand."

He wet his dry lips, eyes wide, hands shaking.

“I–I can’t be _ with _ you, get it? I can’t be in a relationship.” He was talking a mile a minute. “I don’t date, I’m never going to get married, or have little brats, or have a home. I'm never going to give you a rose or a ring. The best I'll give you is a headache. I’m always going to be _ this_. I’m fucking mental, and that’s never going to change. You _ have _ to understand that. You are _ never _ going to be in a relationship with me.”

Her heart was exploding in her chest, her mouth unable to shut as he rambled. He shook her.

“Do you get it?”

Time stopped.

There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. He was pinning her to a wall and pummeling her with rapid-fire blows that knocked the wind out of her.

It was too much, too fast.

She could feel tears welling up.

“I… get it,” she said in a small voice.

He was twitching, wetting his lips as he tried to focus long enough to get out what he needed to say.

“But… but I don’t want you to go away. I don’t. I don't want to stop doing this.”

She blinked.

“But you just said…”

“I know what I said. Can you…” He clicked his tongue, glancing away. He looked like he was going to cry. “Can you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“You want to be… friends with benefits?”

He twisted up, making a strange little noise in his throat.

“No.”

“But you don’t want me to be your girlfriend?”

“No.”

“No you _ don’t _ want me to, or no, you _ do _ want me to?”

“I don’t!”

She shook her head, frustration and embarrassment and anger boiling to a head.

“Then you’ve lost me, Muds. I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

He got up so fast that she jerked back, watching him as he paced the room and rubbed the back of his neck.

“How–how do you feel about me?”

“I…”

She felt like she was going to throw up, _ that's _ what she felt. It was so much so fast. Too much.

Murdoc was staring at her like he was going to pass out or burst into tears at any second, and every emotion a person could feel was washing through her all at once.

“I... like you.”

“Do you _ love _ me?”

Angel shut her mouth tight, frustrated tears springing up to her eyes.

“It’s not that simple! You can’t just come in here and throw this at me out of nowhere and expect me to know what to say!”

He snapped his fingers at her.

“What do you _ want _ to say? What’s the first thing that comes into your head?”

“Murdoc—”

"Stop deflecting and just answer me."

"You're one to talk about deflecting."

"Ange'!"

"I'm not—"

He was frantic, his voice high and reedy.

“Just say it!”

“I do!” she snapped.

Her face fell. It felt like all the air left the room. She couldn't breathe. She stammered, horrified at what was coming out of her mouth.

“I do… love you.”

This was a mistake—the end. He wasn't ever going to want to see or speak to her again. She might as well have packed up her bag and left that second.

His eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling quick with shallow breaths.

“Are you _ in _ love with me? There’s a difference.”

Her body trembled, tears budding at the corners of her eyes.

"You're high as fuck and you're arguing semantics with me."

Angel glanced away, her eyes glassy and wet.

“... Ange’?”

She whipped around.

“Yes, alright?! I am! I’m _ in _ love with you like a fucking high school girl. The whole nine goddamn yards.” Her face grew red with equal parts anger and embarrassment. “I always want to be around you, I think about you all the time, my chest gets tight when you look at me. For godsakes, I fucking think about you when I get off. I’m in love with you like I haven’t been with anybody in years. Happy?! Is that what you wanted to hear?!”

He looked like she’d leapt across the room and slapped him. His fingers rubbed against each other hard, nails digging into the skin till they left red marks.

Angel trembled, her whole body shaking with fear and rage.

“How about you, huh? You had to get fucking high to nut up and get the courage to even talk to me. So what the hell do you have to say for yourself?”

He couldn't even meet her eyes anymore.

“Well?! You had the nerve to press _ me _ about it! Say something!”

“I… don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone,” he said in a dry voice.

“That’s bullshit," she scoffed. "That's some lone-wolf cop-out shit so that you don't have to deal with anything."

He looked angry, now.

“It’s not! I never put anyone before myself. If we fell off a boat in the ocean and there was one life jacket, I'd let you drown. I'm not being cute. When the chips are down, no one's more important than me.”

Her face twisted up.

"I don't believe that. I think _ you _ need to believe it."

"Wishing I was someone different won't make it that way."

Both of their voices raised into a yell until they were both screaming at each other.

"I'm not wishing you were any way! I didn't want _ any _ of this! I was just going to shut my mouth and leave it be. _ You _ came in here and did this!"

"You think you were keeping it a secret?"

"I was doing the best I could!"

"To what?"

"To _ not _ like you! I'm not an idiot! I never, ever thought I'd be with you! I'm not _ that _ delusional!"

She clenched her eyes shut and pressed her fingers to her temple, desperately trying to calm herself down. She let out a long breath, looking at the floor.

“I don’t… care if you love me back,” she said, quieter.

He stopped still, eyes darting over to her.

“... What?”

Angel clenched her hands together.

There was no point in hiding and lying anymore. The building was already on fire, what did it matter if she threw fuel on it? She was going to burn either way.

“I don't care if you don't feel the way I feel. I knew you never would, anyway. I just… I want to keep being around you. I know you don’t hate me and you seem to like being around me. That’s enough. I don’t expect you to be someone you’re not, or be something different for me. I don't want you to change. But if you can't be around me because of the way I feel… I understand. I do."

"What is it?"

She looked up at him.

"What?"

"What is it that you even like?" he snapped, shaking his head. "Is it the bingeing? The coke? The screaming? The disappearing? What about this whole package does it for you?!"

Her jaw tensed.

"If you're just going to make fun of me—"

"No, I honestly want to know what the hell's wrong with you!"

She jumped to her feet and jabbed her finger into his chest, forcing him to step back.

"You're—! You're _ extremely _ aggravating, your ego is absolutely unbelievable, you say whatever the fuck you want without caring whose feelings you hurt. You're a pervert and a letch and you're the least reliable person I know. And I _ still _ can't fucking find a way to hate you."

Her chest was rising and falling fast, her eyes red and slick with tears, her voice beginning to tremble, throat all thick with phlegm from holding back sobs.

"When I'm with you, I… I feel like I'm not lost. I don't feel like I have to prove something or be something. I'm just me. You make me comfortable. I like just listening to you, talking with you. Hell, I even like hearing you ramble on about the goddamn heat-death of the universe in the middle of the night! I feel like I could be around you for a hundred years and never get bored. I just… for the first time in _ years_, I feel like I don't want to leave. You don't know what that's like, always looking for somewhere that feels right and never finding it."

He gave her a long look.

"Yeah, I do."

Angel took a heavy breath, feeling new tears bubble up.

"The time I've spent with you, I've been happier than I've been in a long time."

He turned, rubbing his face, pacing in a tight circle.

"That's… you're–you're just… you _ think _ I make you happy. Just–just because we shag and you've put up with me so far doesn't mean that's gonna last."

He glanced up and stopped. The defiant look on her face was gone and instead she looked… sad. She shrugged.

"I just know that I'm happy now."

He rubbed the back of his damp neck, looking at the floor.

"You happy _ right _ now?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Well, no, not _ right _ now—"

"Because this is how it is with me. You get that, right? The club? The hotel? Right now? That's what being around me is really like. You've known me a few months and you think you get it, but you don't. You haven't even seen me at half my worst. I'm one bad break away from going completely around the bend. You understand? You remember when I said you're shit at picking mates?"

She sat back down, running her hand through her hair.

"You told me before that everyone wants to change you, at your Dad's grave," she shook her head, looking up at him. "I don't want to change you. I _ can't _ change you, Murdoc. Nobody can. Only you can and only if you want to. I know how you can be. Yeah, maybe I haven't seen the worst of it, but I've got a pretty good idea of what that could be like. And you're right, maybe I couldn't take it. But that's who you are. You don't have to be somebody you're not for me to like you. The only thing I want you to be is happy."

"I'm never happy," he snorted.

"That's not true. You know that's not true."

"You think you're up for this, but you're not. You're too nice. You're too soft. I'll snap you in half. Worse than Billy. You'll never be able to handle it. Because if you could, you wouldn't have even caught feeling in the first place. If you had _ any _ brains at all, you’d knock this off."

He stole a look at her from the corner of his eye as she rested her chin in her hands and glanced down at the table.

Shame made her face hot. That was what she was to him, after all—a stupid kid. She should have denied it, kept up the illusion, the lie. Every time she opened her mouth, she made things worse. And things couldn’t have been worse.

"I told you, I don't care if this is never anything more than it is right now. Or if it's less. I don't know why it needs to be harder than that."

He stared at her, her phone's music filling up the heavy silence with its tinny speaker.

Murdoc’s hands opened and closed at his sides, his palms sweaty.

“Why did you have to… do this?” he said. “Why can’t you just… walk away, like everybody else? Make it easier?”

“I’m not that smart, I guess,” she mumbled." And I could ask you the same thing. Why'd you have to dig into this? Why couldn't you have just let me keep pretending? Why'd you have to drag all this out?"

He clenched his fists.

"I... I couldn't just... I couldn't stand it anymore, this fucking pussy-footing around. It was driving me nuts."

"Then don't point the finger at me. I was fine leaving it lie."

"No you weren't," he scoffed.

"Don't put words in my mouth, Muds. Just... Please, if that's all you have to say, then go. Stop nettling me. I already feel bad enough without you salting the wound."

"You want me to leave?"

Angel shook her head, burying her face in her hands.

“Do what you want,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t know what it is you want from me.”

He stared at her, her shoulders slack and her hair falling over her ashamed face.

It made him feel like absolute shit.

He thought he'd feel better, ease what remained of his conscience, but he'd fucked everything over. Again.

Murdoc took a long breath in through his nose and unbuttoned one more button on his shirt, sitting down beside her.

"What are you—"

"Shut up," he muttered.

He gathered her hair off her shoulder and leaned down, dragging his lips over her skin, the stubble on his chin lightly scratching as he moved up to her neck.

A little, trembling sigh left her.

"If this is just because you want to wriggle out of an uncomfortable situation…" she mumbled.

"Do you want me to stop?" he grunted.

Her hands came down on his back, pulling him close, her fingers twisting the fabric of his shirt up. It felt so good to have him close, and so, so unbelievably painful, like Tantalus desperate for water. It killed her.

“No,” she said into his neck, her voice breaking. "I don't."

He'd never kissed her so much, his hands clamped around her jaw, pulling her as close as he could. It felt different, earnest and desperate, his tongue running across her lips. She knew this was just to placate her, to keep her from falling apart, but she wanted to let herself sink into it. His touch was all she had to tether herself onto.

His hand slid between her thighs and his middle finger pressed against her. She jerked away, her face pained.

"I don't… I don't want this if you're just pitying me."

He set his jaw hard and clamored onto his knees between her legs, gripping hard onto her shorts.

"Does this seem like pity to you?"

A jolt shot through her as he pressed the pad of his thumb against her hard, moving in rough circles, his eyes focused on her. Her nails dug into the mattress, her spine going rigid. It was almost painful, how harsh his touch was, sending shocks along her nerves that rippled through her legs.

"I'm doing this 'cause I want to. You think I'm nice enough to dole out pity sex?"

He had her there.

Murdoc wasn't looking away, pulling her shorts and panties down her thighs, scratching her skin with his nails in his hurry.

His brain was fried and he couldn't hold himself back.

He bit down on the crook of her leg and she grunted, her knees parting, fingers digging into his hair. He dragged his long tongue up her thigh and unceremoniously jammed it inside her, his teeth grazing over her hard, her back arching with a shocked yelp.

"Muds! Christ, slow down."

He didn't want to slow down. This was the only way he could show her.

He clamped down tight on her wrists to keep her from wriggling away, his eyes boring into her. She was making a strained sound that made him boil over. He spread her legs wide as he coated her in sloppy, vicious kisses. Her hips pushed into him, his tongue merciless and his sharp teeth harsh against her, overwhelming and riding the edge of pain and blinding pleasure.

"M-Murdoc, it's too much," she panted.

He let go of her wrists and wrapped his hands around her ankles, forcing her legs wider, ignoring her squirming, refusing to let up even as her nails dug into his shoulders.

He recognized the desperate way she was grabbing him. She needed him. This was something he could handle. Her nails sunk in as he bit down.

"Murdoc!" she snapped.

She grabbed him by the jaw, tilting his face up. He saw the twisted look on her face, felt the shaking of her legs in his hands, overstimulated and tense. _ Too much. _

He held her legs apart, looking up at her.

"Okay, okay." His shoulders shook with a labored breath. "You done questioning me?"

She couldn't even form words, nodding her head.

"Good," he huffed, wiping the edge of his mouth with his thumb.

He pulled away, leaving her shuddering, and yanked his boots off with some difficulty and laid back on the mattress, pulling her overtop of him. He wanted to look at her. He ran his thumb over the light red marks of his teeth left behind on the inside of her thigh, stroking her skin. God she felt like silk. Angel leaned down to kiss him, a touch so light and gentle that it drove him mad. He needed more, all of her.

His clammy, sweaty fingers slipped against the metal buckle of his belt and he hissed under his breath as he struggled. Angel slapped him away and took over as he desperately unbuttoned his shirt and wrestled out of it. He pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it away, his hands running over her bare back, brushing her hair to the side. She was looking at him with that soft look, the one that made his ice cold heart melt and his chest swell.

He turned and spat into his hand, rubbing himself slick before he pulled her closer. He could almost feel the pulse under her skin. His crazed, focused eyes locked on her as he pushed into her, his jaw dropping with a long moan. Her eyes slipped closed in relief, a deep sigh leaving her.

He gripped onto her hips hard, pulling out all the way, shuddering at the sight of her squirming.

"Muds, don't tease me," she breathed.

"Heh, you know you like it."

She hated that he was right. He knew her too well. He knew her better than anyone she'd ever been with, and they'd only fucked a handful of times. He knew her body better than her.

He held her tight by the hips and pushed in slow and pulled out until the tip of him slid out, giving her frustratingly slow strokes.

"Murdoc," she said in a breaking voice as he left her completely.

"Now it's not enough?" he asked with a throaty, mischievous little twinge to his voice. "Satan, you're hard to please."

He knew he was being cruel, and that was how he liked it. He took great pleasure in making things pleasantly unpleasant.

He gripped onto her hips with both hands and held her away even as she tried to move against him, his cock enragingly absent. She was a strong girl, but he was stronger-willed, and with the leverage of his position, he kept her at a frustrating distance. He wanted to, but he was enjoying her squirming too much, a mean little laugh bubbling out of him.

"What's wrong, Ange'? You look downright desperate."

Angel whimpered, an unfamiliar, weak sound from her that made him shiver.

"Goddamn it, Murdoc, _ please,_" she cried, legs shaking.

God, even he couldn't wait anymore with her asking like that.

"Alright," he hummed. "Alright, don't get all worked up. You know I'm not gonna hang you out to dry.”

The tip of his tongue flicked against her ear, making her crumble into him as he pushed in, gripping onto her ass hard to shove himself in as deep as he could.

His hand slid up the warm, bare skin of her back, fingers threading through her hair to pull it off her shoulders. He didn't like the unsure look on her face. She was restrained, tense, holding back, letting him set the pace. He could feel her uncertainty. It made guilt twist up inside him. His eyes darted all over face nervously.

_ Ange', come on. Don't do this. _

He shook his head.

"What're you being so shy for? Come on. You in love with me or not?" he said with a teasing edge that stuck a knife into her heart, his hand tightening in her hair.

"I-I'm not being shy," she insisted. "I just… I'm—"

"Too in your own head," he scoffed.

His hand slapped sharp against her ass, sending her whole body tensing with shock, and an obscene, loud moan burst out of her. She pulled him against her and he gripped her tight, swelling with pride, his nails digging into the red mark developing on her skin. She liked that.

"There you are," he gasped, taking in her lust-stricken face with wide eyes. "No kid gloves. Don't shrink away. I want you to fuck me."

That made something in her snap.

Her hot mouth came down on him hard, her hand sliding down his side to grip his thigh, her nails sinking in to draw out a long moan from his lips. He could feel her chest heaving against him, the pressure of her body driving him mad. He wanted to pull her closer and closer until she sank into him completely. He wanted all of her, every inch, every drop, all to himself. She had him in the palm of her hand. It was painful.

His head rolled back, heavy breaths huffing out of him, her body moving against him. He'd let her do anything to him, anything.

"Ange', augh… God… I want you… I want you more than anything… I can't fucking stand it."

His voice was so strained that he sounded on the verge of tears.

"You've got me, Murdoc," she panted. "Right here. I'm right here."

He grabbed her and bit down so hard into her neck that she shrank away, sucking in a sharp gasp, then groaned, leaning into the heat of his mouth. The violence of his touch was sweet and even the pain became a welcome sensation. That's how he was—awful and wonderful and intense. His breath shuddered against the tender skin, breezing against the trail of hot saliva left behind.

“I… Ange', I want to do shit to you. Horrible shit. Shit that would make you hate me. I want to squeeze you till you pop. I want to fuck you so hard that I leave bruises. I want to see you cry and fall apart and I want you to rip me to shreds. I want to just… destroy you. That’s… fucked-up,” he breathed. “I can’t help it. It’s… it’s not a question of _ if _ I’m gonna hurt you. It’s _ when _ and _ how bad_. Christ, I want you to hate me so I could do all of it and not care.”

Her hands ran through his hair and it felt so bloody good and she pulled him close, her legs wrapping around his tight. He let out a long groan, his eyes half-lidded.

"I don't hate you," she breathed.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew what it meant. He'd known the whole time.

His breath was hot against her cheeks.

"I… I don't hate you, either."

It was unbearable, looking up at her flushed face. He could see it, feel it, how much she wanted to show him the depth of what she felt. It was honest and kind and it hurt in a way he couldn't describe. He pulled her in close against his neck, his cheek pressed to hers.

"Ange'," he drawled, his hands running over her back.

Hearing her stunted little gasps against his ear every time he pushed in made his head swim. He stopped suddenly, gripping tight onto her hips, holding her still.

"Fuck," he shuddered, burying his face into her neck. "Fuck, stop…"

He always came too quick when he was strung out and he could feel himself rushing close. It was too overwhelming, the heat of her. But he didn't want to let go. Not yet. Not ever.

Angel nudged him to her lips, tracing her fingers across his cheeks as she kissed him, her touch so soft compared to him.

"Do you know when I realized?" she asked quietly.

His eyes flicked open, his chest heaving with effort to restrain himself.

"Wh-what?"

"When I realized… what I felt."

He grit his teeth and dug his nails into her hip, his voice thin and weak.

"When?"

Her laugh vibrated against him and she brushed his sweaty hair out of his face.

"Do you remember calling me the night you pulled that shit at the restaurant? With that guy's wife? You rang me at three in the morning."

He closed his eyes and tried to focus.

"Y–yeah, I remember."

Angel fought herself. He'd opened up to her, it was only fair to give him something.

"When you hung up, I don't know why, but I felt… like I wanted to keep hearing you. I was pissed that you woke me up, but I wanted you to keep talking, and I…" She glanced away, cringing. "I got off thinking about your voice."

He coughed out a laugh.

"You… you fucked yourself thinking about me?"

She groaned, looking away.

"There was something about you that made me want to be touched. I couldn't understand it, at the time."

He gripped onto her.

"Was… was that when—"

"No. That was when I realized I liked you. When I realized it was more than that… was on that bench, after Eli. When you said Noodle was like your daughter. That… made me think maybe you actually could feel something."

He stared at her, his hands clenched tight.

"You let me shag you that night," he said.

"But even then… I couldn't admit it to myself. I tried to brush it off. A crush, lust…" She shook her head, her jaw tight as he started to move agonizingly slow under her. "But… on the balcony, in New York, what you said to me about going backwards or forwards or… sideways… the way you talked to me… that's when I realized. And there was nothing I could do about it."

"Stupidest thing you could've done," he muttered.

"You made yourself… unignorable."

He took her face in his hands.

"Tell me… I want to hear it, the real thing."

"I thought—"

"I know," he snapped. "But I can take it right now. Say it tomorrow and I'll ruin it. I ruin everything, eventually. But… I want to hear it now. I want to."

He hated those three words more than anything. They made him physically sick. Anytime they slipped carelessly out of someone's mouth and splattered all over him it always, always went bad. It always ended with their blood on his hands.

They got too attached, expected commitment, expected change, expected someone else. As if those three words were supposed to fix everything about him. Make him normal. Make him _ good _. But it never did. It never would. And the worse he got, the harder they'd cling. They thought they could be the one to change him or fix him or be what he needed, but no matter how much he liked them, no matter how much he tried, he was always too much of one thing or another. Usually, he was just too much of an ass.

If he heard those words, they'd never hear from him again. It was never worth the dragged-out horror that would follow. It was better just to cut the head off the snake and never, ever see them again.

But he felt weak and horrid and painfully sentimental and he wanted to hear her say it.

She reached down, cupping his cheek all shiny with sweat, her shaking fingertips brushing against his growing stubble. Her voice was quiet, as if she was afraid to say it.

"I… I love you."

His nails sunk into her. It felt like he was turning inside out, melting like a candle under a blowtorch. The words hurt like a knife stuck in his chest and he wanted her to cut him a thousand times.

"Ah, Christ… S-say it again."

Angel's fingers ran through his hair. It felt so good to say it, finally being able to let go of a secret held in for so long. She wanted to say it over and over to make up for all the times she wanted to say it before. She wanted to scream it. Her eyes were wet with tears.

"I love you," she managed, her breaths coming in sharp and quick.

He could feel himself painfully on the edge, his grunts growing reedy and thin.

"Look at me," he pleaded in a hoarse voice, grabbing her face to tilt her gaze up.

He wanted to see her—that soft face, those dark brown eyes. He wanted to see the change behind her eyes when she spilled over the edge. The corners of her lips pulled into a small smile.

"I'm always looking at you," she breathed quietly.

_ Oh, pet, don't say that. _

He shivered, clutching onto her for dear life.

"F-fuck—" he huffed.

Her body tensed and he thought he'd burn up in the heat of her. His lips smashed against hers, muffling her cracking voice as she came, hot tears dripping onto his cheeks. He pushed into her deep, his body locking up with a long moan.

He slowed, panting, his eyes closed tight, her lips leaving him. Angel's throat was dry, her arms burning and quivering under her own weight. His forehead was slick with sweat, his bangs brushed up out of his face. Murdoc’s hands held her tight, refusing to let her go even as he gasped for breath, heart hammering in his chest.

He wanted to destroy her all over again, his body flush with the fever of the unwinding spell of the drugs and the pulsing heat of her. But he was languid and spent. He didn't even know if he could get up, let alone roll on top of her and get her to arch her back a few more times.

A teardrop splattered onto his face, shocking him out of his trance. His eyes cracked open to look up at her.

"What now?" Angel said in a small voice.

She looked scared, and he couldn’t think of any words to reassure her, not even a snide little joke.

She should have been scared, because this wasn’t going to end well. Everything was going to fall apart, now. Because it always did. And he knew there was a landmine buried in the grass that she couldn't see, and he'd set it himself.

"... Two more," he huffed in a thin, ragged voice.

It took her a long moment to realize what he meant, her eyes traveling over to her Telecaster leaned up against the wall and her notebook laid open on the floor.

"Two more," she repeated, softer.

She gripped the sheets, turning to stare down at him.

"Please… please don’t leave yet."

He let out a long shudder of a sigh, leaning up to kiss her with shaking lips.

"Don't think I could even if I wanted to. Damn legs would give out."

  
  
  



End file.
